Nahh, Rumi. I love you buddy, but we’re gonna have to stoush.

Sure, you’re that hair and that skin and that soul. You’re that room you live in, full of memories. You’re that round belly and those judgements about it. You live in the judgements of others and your perception of them.

You’re your children and your ancestors. You’re your neighbours. You live in their minds and yours.

You’re the consciousness in which all these things arise and That Which Observes.

And you’re that toenail. The one with the weird wrinkle in it that you can’t cut right no matter what you do, that always digs in as it grows back.

You’re that tightening up into just this nugget of Self right in the hard nut of the frightened heart.

You’re that audacious outbreath into the farthest stars.

Neither this, nor that. Both this and that. Not One. Not Two. Not Many.

But I love you, buddy. I’m there in that room with you. I’m your roomie, Rumi.

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