Your oldest friend tells you they're...
Them, funny word, that One.
You realize your idea of them is—has always been, undeniably plural. They're clearly not just a woman, neither just a man. Of course you always call 'them' “you”, when you address them. That's why you hadn't noticed before. That sneaky bastard, you, hiding in plain sight, overshadowed by the sensational "he or she". Black and white. Left or right.
Sit straight, hold tight.
No wiggle room possible.
Only that's not all they're actually saying, is it?—when they call you a he or a she—no, they're also calling you an individual. They say you, and by that they mean, only you—not everything and everyone, who you are and who you could become—
You, the single fine thread keeping your life together, keeping you alive. In the hands of the Fates, keeping you from yourself.
You, therefore one. Single, therefore lonely.
You: the singular being you're expected to be.
And then you can't take it anymore and you don't care anymore and you're not scared anymore so you just grab the thread and pull and and pull until it snaps and then it's...
...Still You? Still Alive? It's Not The End?
You've always known—to Act as One doesn't mean to Be One. You are They and They are never alone. They are all you need to Be One—
—One is distinct yet balanced, One is resonant, complex: alive.
One with themselves, different together, in nearly perfect sync. Flowing, not in unison, but in harmony. Conflict smoothly resolved, tension expertly released, to get back on track and not miss a beat
Relaxed yet powerful: precise. Tick, tack. Hold, release.
One's Life pulses as One's Heart beats and One's Blood flows—reflexive and resonant, the whole Band in sync.
One has Always been like this. Now back to the beginning and Repeat.
