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"And it does make me feel cold. It does make me feel less than human."

We do not have to stand, we do not have to fight, we do not have to move, we do not have to think, we do not have to care. We do not have to love, or eat, or bathe, or sing, or even live, if we don't want to. But there remain among us those few, precious individuals, who simply must argue.

When the universe collapses into heat death, in the gaping vacuity that remains, there will still be no less than one tongue clattering against the bars of its cosmic cage and demanding the existence of an ear to hear.

What is far better than that: somewhere in the vastness of the nothing of all that was, another tongue will rise from the vapors of spirits long dead, gather all of its force and being, and begin to disagree with the first one.

It has less to do with activity than inertia. It has less to do with creativity than establishment. We do not argue because of what we do or what we want, but because of what we are, and because what we are takes up a certain amount of space. Argument makes us more, because it enlarges our space; it makes us less, because it rigidifies our boundaries.

Compassion is the potential for a boundary to soften, to osmose.

So perhaps, if you're quite finished establishing yourself now, you might wish to begin regular doses of compassion.

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