Multiplicity of one.

Cut me right open. Get to through my air, my skin, my bone. Reach for my chromosome. Is this where it is?

Here. Identity. Multiplicity of none. The singularity of the word hits like a shiny thin razor, coldly and perfectly reflecting chaotic particles of light. Identities. A sterile definition of sharply cut out chromosomes strung together by a string.

One multiple identity. The chaotic chromosomes are all different. There are poppy red ones and sky blue ones and even the little dark ones that smell like moist soil. They don’t have boundaries. Heck, they don’t even know they are chromosomes. They are simply trying to negotiate this big packed world. They are many.

But what if there are too many? If there are different components, does the whole lose its ability to be a whole? Is there no more wholeness? Can there be too many parts? Too many little chromosomes. They co-exist, they fight, and they sometimes go to bed. They still exist. They become a colourful and terrifying mosaic that is a little to fragile to be touched and a little to strange to be looked at. Yet the only way it knows how to be itself is by being that strange colourful thing. The thing whose parts are fighting and biting even when you shatter it against a hot cement floor.

Pick one up. Reach in there. Touch it. Pick another one. Look at it. Look. Under the gentle stream of your gaze it seizes being a transparent piece of glass. It is allowed to be what it is. Part by part, with no end in sight. One of these might bite the skin on your index finger — it hugged you too much. And a whole of them will sleep on your palms.