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There’s parts of me I like and parts I don’t.
I’m supposed to believe. But it makes no sense.

Is-me and ought-me vying for mastery.
One knowing better. One being better.
It makes no sense.

Must I cleave good from bad? Right from wrong? Truth from lies? Nature from nurture? Health from disease? Freedom from compulsion?
What is not me? What must I excise? Who holds the scalpel?
It makes no sense.

What of You?
Subject from Object. Self from Other.
No matter how fine the blade, where I cut it bleeds.

Is there compassion in division? Progress in acceptance? Embrace in separation?
What of love?

It makes no sense of unfathomable mystery.
Is it supposed to?

From → unclassified

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