The price of opinion is the shocking indignance of having the world deny you your axioms. Your principles, your morals, your self-assured manners become nought. You are, actually, not entitled to your own opinion. What is an opinion anyway? A personal preference prevailing on principle, perhaps without (yet probably drawing on) prejudice. See all that is spoken is seasoned with values, and so are the sentences unuttered by breath. The movement your body distills in the air; the thoughts your mind disperses; may liberate you and augment aura, but ooze enough opinion and you begin to ensnare. We weave and thread our existences in tapestry, tangled for want of teleology. And it is a marvel that in spite of our elaborate mess, we continue to coexist in plurality, just almost without annihilation. We are passionate people and perhaps this crisscrossing and threading will never cease as our individual voices cry for purchase, for legacy, for love. Yet even in chaos we find our interwoven integrities balance on common ground. That the multifaceted ways of weaving leave behind a stronger foundation for more. Sometimes the intersections overlap and combine, sometimes they contrast and complement, sometimes there are holes to be filled, yet fear not – there exists a plethora of fibre in all. And we will continue creating and conflicting and collaborating our collection of cogitations to combine, to amass our human existences. See perhaps we are not entitled to our own opinions, but they exist nonetheless. Perhaps it is the pinnacle of humanity’s hallmarks to voice our thoughts in the hopes of an echo; praying for resonance & preparing for void. Yet we’ll do it anyhow because the price of humanity is subjective.