Islands are bones from the same body

I dreamt a policeman came to my door
asking for directions
pale and young, he was beautifully dressed.

In the living room I opened a drawer
looking for maps and inside were our syringes
each with an initial drawn on its lid to avoid confusion.
I could smell him at my shoulder
bliss petals and lavender.

I turned and saw a sprinkling
of talcum on the collar of his tunic
he was saying “I’m not lost anymore
this is the place I was looking for.”

We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies – all these are private and, except through symbols and at second hand, incommunicable. We can pool information about experiences, but never the experiences themselves. From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes.

-Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception

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