One, plain but profound,
concrete and tangible,
yet an ethereal
figment of the mind.
A mind that longs for a calm order
in its own chaos of anxiety.
One, stark, elegantly simple.
Only zero is simpler but empty.
One’s integrity.
Two’s duplicity.
A token for any element of reality
that can be discerned,
identified, told apart;
a universal abstraction.
Tool to count, keep track
of possessions, of inventory
of being there.
One is a phantom of existence.
Lonely one has no companions.
Μόνος. lives in isolation and solitude.
Unique, aloof, separate, distinguished,
One is elitist, exclusive and noble.
Separate but not separable.
One is integral and indivisible.
If broken, it is no longer one
its essence destroyed.
One is the first in order and rank
in merit or preference,
a sense of primacy,
the most important.
One is the best
One, finally, is a generic member
of the human species:
what one means when one says one.
Is it a coincidence
that I is the Roman numeral for one?
Do we identify with one as the result
of our dreadful loneliness,
or perhaps of our sense of superiority,
of being exceptional,
above other species,
the pinnacle of creation,
noble, true and good,
the best?
Why we think of ourselves
as an image of the One God?