In a dualistic world, contrariness is queen.
Without her, no gifting of paradox is offered.
In an un-dualistic world, edge is a birthright,
an offering and an invitation.
In a dualistic world,
substance is the formal stance,
ever solid, never empty.
The worldly path you take
is across the map of opposites.
Wrong is always invitational.
Right is seemingly mundane.
Wrong is alluringly eventful.
Right is an approach to ambience.
Wrong is billboard material.
Right is camouflage into apparel.
In this obvious world,
dualism is a crossing guard
catering to safe sensing.
In duality, knowledge is a Las Vegas deck,
where probability is the dealer,
standing upright on a horizontal clock face
in its ever-sweep, turning.
Intuition is there, as the tarot deck,
where spontaneity is the dealer.
Drama is the victim hood deck there,
where suffering is the dealer.
In dualism, we all wear a wardrobe
to differentiate and separate
into the wisdom of our isolation.
As the story goes, we are our own epitaphs,
used as the script that we say.
Who grieves with me about this
eliminates punctuation as our need.
Who breathes with me over this
and eventually we become a song
with a language of only vowels.
We leave dualism behind but not abandoned
and that forest of crutches will be set on fire.
If so, we have moved to a land where we live
without dumb-downs or lips service or account.
My headspace historically,
for personal expression,
had been dog eats dog, rhetorical remarks,
conspiracy theories, feign regrets,
issues as diversion, celebration of the blessed,
profound acts of omission, with consequences
chasing me down.
Duality is a contentious fill of now.
The bedrock of our consciousness
is this positional awareness.
Our self-wardrobe from there is contextual.
We are in scenes with lines to say
and stories to present.
We only have eyes for audience.
Enrolling others is a given or we are at a loss.
They are my senses providing,
consuming confirmation
of my individual isolation.
I need to defend my self-sense
and move it along.
Duality has me on a map,
going from here to there,
wearing the identity chip,
vulnerable to account
and geared for justification.
The world of duality is the land
of elegant denials, collectively share,
but in self-privacy.
Duality has provided for an endless series
of internal friends during the course of my life.
Some are lobbyists, some are kibitzers,
some are moralists, some are alarmists,
some would defend my every action,
if needed,
some would offer me worthy pretends,
some piggyback on my desires,
some offer logic forwarded into decisiveness,
some secure the riches of my aloneness,
some claim no legitimacy to my being,
and some eavesdrop into commentary.
And all of them live the dualism life.
They expect me to honor them
as my primary consciousness.
Dualism is this narrative as nurture.
It makes up the story of my life
but not the true isness of living it . . .
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