We paint ourselves in a way that is acceptable to the mind’s eye. Yours and mine. We can never know one another. Flashing lights. Behind a darkness born of Babylon. And we cannot see.
We speak our truths in a way, still calculated for the audiences’ response. We speak rage. Love. And all things in between. We speak our lives. Yet not of our being.
We ask the other to meet us in the field. Somewhere in between their knowing and ours. But we lack foundational knowledge to build the bridge. The wise path that carries us to understanding. To freedom.
A refusal to look. A denial of another’s existence. And we cannot see. No will to know a thing, another, as you know yourself. To commune at the level of spirit. Heart strings to heart strings. How well do we love? Ourselves. Truly? In plain sight.
We collaborate for the shift. The “win”. The taking back. And still, we argue what part of the collective was most important. Still we beg for individual attention. Grandiose. Apology and the like. We forget, moving forward is moving on. And we cannot see. The sum of the parts is not greater than the whole. It couldn’t be. It never has been.
And still I wonder. When the mind will cease. Hearts bust open. Spirit meets spirit. And divides merge.