The Human Hive

you and I are indivisible

You were whole once, satisfied with living. you, you were all you needed.
But one dreadful day you picked a fight, a fight that had been coming your way since ages. the consequence was, Atropos tore you into pieces, one, two, three and more. and all you have since then are but two choices, walk, drag the remaining pieces until you travel heaven and earth to find yourself, and hem with you or let those pieces come find you, after all you want to be but whole again.

you have my pieces, and.
this, this pours gold into all the crevices and makes me whole again, and I’d think how Atropos’s stares in vain.

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At the core of human existence lies a gorgeous, indefinite but deliberate paradox: we are singular beings, but not singular truly. You and I, we are stitched together. Not by our fates but by our identities. I’m talking about an unconscious, unsurmountable, and inevitable bias that each of us carries.

From childhood, we begin as blank slates, like a white wall, waiting to be made impure. But as life moves through us, there is mosaic, a Kintsugi of a kind that we anticipate. We begin to carry pieces of others within us, from a broken home, from a grandmother’s lullaby, in an old mentor’s advice, in a sister’s love, a friend’s arm, in an unrequited love and from a hundred more places and people that saw you. Humans we have loved deeply, intricately, humans who challenged us, and even those who have wounded us, all etch themselves into the cracks of this mosaic of remnant identities on this white wall. It’s in the phrases, the gestures we unconsciously mimic, the values we cherish, and the fears we inherit. We become these mosaics themselves, fragmented but not broken.

But this exchange that I talk about, it isn’t one sided. In this intermingling of selves and identities, something sacred happens every time you are touched. The boundaries of you begin to blur. There are times when there’s more of someone else in you than you in that moment.

Grief ripples, joy resonates.

I suppose there’s a quiet humility in realizing you are not really whole, you have never been, that your courage was never yours, it might have been sparked by a loved one’s belief, that your strength came from those who had held you in your weakest moments, your fears weren’t really yours either but were your mother’s, and your heart is this white wall of million abstract pieces that you picked up on the way.

This isn’t making you less. On the contrary, it makes you more. The self is not a monolith, but a hyacinth watered by so many voices, high, low, shrill, deep, all alike and each rooted in glorious stories. Every love you’ve known, every heartbreak endured, every laugh is in you, and one can never really run away. Erasure was never an option, because memory is a stubborn ink. This human that you are, your whitewashed wall is tattooed beneath the skin with every consciousness you’ve touched.

There is a concept of the hive mind, an organism that communicates with all its entities as one. We as humans have failed miserably to understand this. No matter how much we isolate ourselves, break our identities, tell others we are different, we are as far from the truth as possible. I believe the human is a hive mind, but unconscious, fearful, negligent, and unaware of itself. The “I” we assert is scaffolded in others. There is no pristine, untouched self or identity at all.

I’ve always believed we crave for connection more than accomplishment. This is testament to the truth, you and I are indivisible. Music moves crowd, and the pulse of civilization thrums beneath the noise, of a rhythm, barely perceptible though, of shared longing, shared fear, and shared hope. We are not alone in ourselves. We never were.

This concept me in you, you in me is not a philosophical one. It’s an intimate one. It explains why grief feels like a hollowing out. It explains why love feels like recognition, not because we discover, but because we feel reintroduced. And yet, we resist this interdependence. In a world obsessed with individuality, we are told to “find ourselves” as though the self is a destination rather than a conversation. We seek solitude to feel whole, not realizing that our wholeness is inherently communal.

In the end, I suppose, this concept of indivisibility is a quiet rebellion against loneliness. It reminds us that to be human is to be porous. They call love a chemical reaction, which means in that moment they are the most of you anyone can be, and you are the most of them, anyone can be, love.

And in this moment, we are infinite.