Dividual

Men split things. Rock and wood. Nut-shells and animal carcasses. Seed pods and coconuts.

Men split to find things they need. And to find hidden things. They split to access the soft, sweet pulps that hide within rigid husks. And they split to see impenetrable fortresses crack, yeild. They split to begin two new things, or to end one thing permanently, for purposes or for sheer sensations.

Men treasure and hoard what they find inside things. A crop of crystals. Sweet milk. Blood. Gold. Some of the inner things have inherent value, while others derive their value simply from having been inaccessible. Men are driven by a curious and violent lust, one that craves both resistance and access.

Men have split atoms, the least vulnerable citadels to date, and terrible powers burst forth. Our curiosity and conquest came to an aweful crescendo.

Every time something has been split, it disappears. The deer is gone and only venison and fur remain. Only cords of wood lay near the missing tree. The life of a thing, it’s identifiable essence, suddenly vanishes.

We are individual. Which means we cannot be divided. Split a man in two, and he disappears. Try to crack him open and sip on his soul, and you’ll find a vacant sack of tissue. Attempt a pyschological dismantling, and you’ll gain access to strange and meaningless artifacts, while the self has slipped out the back door, retreated to an inaccessible safe haven.

Splitting is the business of the educated class today. Our chief concern is the cracking open of the apparently whole. We want to see the puppeteer, the operator. The quest for understanding has led inside further fortresses, including ourselves. But every unveiling, every penetration requires a forceful, violent split in the fabric of something whole. As soon as we break that thing, we enter into a state of morbid curiosity. The living whole, the object of desire, flees the scene, and we are left with the post-mortem components, fascinating in a dead way. And that is the state of most academic discourse. Post-mortem fascination. A rigorous and insightful picking at bones.

Life, essence, identity: these continue to dart off to the perifery, hiding, breathing and watching from their verdant burrows. Where are these pockets of vitality, and how can we find them without scaring off their trembling inhabitants?