Metapolitical Round-Robin in I-Minor

My sadness about my country
is the same as
my sadness about our species
is the same as
my sadness about myself:
We invent fictions about our nation,
what it means to be human,
who we are.

Something within me conjures
from the infinitude of possibilities
an imaginary “self,”
then identifies with its own apparition
who propagates a personal narrative,
fabricating sub-characters into series of
friends, enemies and strangers
to populate a world contrived
to mask its fears
and perpetuate the plot.

This goes on and on for eons,
but goes nowhere.
It swallows the physical continuum
in a far more spacious vastness,
and it has no size.
Everything in it is always changing,
but there is never any thing in it.

Let go of these precious gems.
They do not need your assistance to sparkle,
nor you theirs to shine.
It is all self-arising
from title page to epilogue,
even our readiness for seeing
through the dreaming
into the unspeakable presence,
the incandescence of being,
the wish-fulfilling jewel.

My joy about my country
is the same as
my joy about our species
is the same as
my joy about myself:
We undo fictions about our nation,
what it means to be human,
who we really are.

Something with me recognizes
awareness itself.
The tale spontaneously
concludes.