I am a collection. Whole because of other whole things. My life made possible by the life of other living beings. Myself the accumulation of effort and preservation of those that lived before me. Yet despite what I am, despite my origins, how easy it is to deny my connection to those things. Is it ego? A never-ending, continually dissatisfying quest for individual identity? And what purpose do these serve? What good is it to have an identity if you must deny the things that make you what you are? I am multiplicity. Yet I am also a singular entity. I am made of parts that join together to form my whole being. Why then is it so difficult to acknowledge that my being itself is only a part? Why is it so hard to accept that being one also means being many? That being whole does not excuse my responsibility from a whole that is surrounding me? That my individual identity cannot be defined entirely on my own because I am as much what I am as what I am not? That the harmonious contradictions that compose me are what makes me human? And that if I do want to belong to humanity that I must also belong to yet another whole? A whole called life. Infinitely more complex, each part composing life’s whole identity. And I am just one of those parts. Whole and yet part. Part and yet whole. And I am connected to all living things by what composes me, and by what composes them, and by what our different compositions compose together.