In harming others, we literally harm ourselves.

Oneness is not a metaphor when you look at it through the lens of monism: the boundary between self and other is a membrane, not a wall. The cell that attacks its neighbor is not winning a war, it is starting an autoimmune disease in the one body it belongs to. We forget that every face we meet is another fold of the same surface, the same consciousness wearing a different mask. When we wound what looks separate, the wound simply travels home by a longer road. What might soften if we treated the other as a part of us that has not yet woken up?