Another draft

Should I study the biology of humans, as I find a great pull to, it will not be because I love them. I will study them because I am fascinated by them. My findings will not be for the improvement of man's life; they will fulfill my own selfish human desire for knowledge. I don't want to help man. I just want to know him.

With my misanthropy, I sincerely hope my interests are drawn elsewhere. I wish that my passions lead me to the microscopies of the zoological world, that I can study the way a perfect creature functions. Humans are some blemish, borne of the strangest causes. Why are we here? How are we here? I don't follow those religious ideologies for the answers to such question; most people's spiritualities are only as corrupted as the minds they were spawned of. Religion is an escape from what we don't want to think about, what we don't want answered. What happens when life ceases? Well God has an answer for that and now you can sleep at night.

Should there be a God, he is closer yet farther than we think. He or she or it is the energy between atoms. It is the life force that makes a mammal breathe, a bird fly, a cell quiver with metabolism. It isn't some savior waiting up above. There is no salvation unless we make it so. By our nature we bring pain upon ourselves, and no one but ourselves, or perhaps death, will save us.

What makes the common man so holy that he ignores the flight of a robin or the wind between branches? Why are we above watching a cat sleep or sitting outdoors with the grass beneath us, only physically? This man that we have evolved into is a bad man. He is a sick mutation of something that may have meant well to the planet. We are not worthy of this home. We do not belong. To live only to desecrate and exploit is not a life of any value.

This rape, we strange creatures, we don't reserve it for the natural world around us. We use each other too. There is no kinship, no love between people. Wolves may feed on smaller animals, but they are loyal to one another. Humans feed on smaller animals and each other.

I'm not sure what I want from life, or what I expect. I will not however for one second pretend that I am ok with the state of the world, humanity, and society. I may be human, but I am not like the others.

How do you know?

Burning pages that you've never read
How do you know it'll be better when you're dead?

Lying in the dark overcome by dread
How do you know it'll be better when you're dead?

Quaking hands with the barrel to your head
How do you know it'll be better when you're dead?

Sitting there at a funeral for a friend
What do you think? Is it better now you're dead?

Without Mirrors

Without a mirror I can easily forget what others see. Without a mirror, I can see parts of myself, skewed by my mental expectations and desires. I'm not so short, not so curvy. My hands aren't so small and my face not so round and soft. My voice, standing alone, sounds to my liking.

But then I'm reminded, so easily. A glance downward, or in the reflective glass, that's all it takes. Even the best company brings out in me what I don't desire.

And who can I blame for these chromosomal failures? My parents? Not really. Perhaps it's my fault, for not being happy. "Only you can make yourself happy," they all say. And then they wonder why I find them so irritating.

I feel myself alone without mirrors, lifting weights, pushing against the ground then up again. I imagine myself surpassing my current capacities. I imagine definition in my arms, back, and torso. I imagine a strong face.

I imagine power, a subtle and unspoken dominance. I imagine being taken seriously, being seen not as soft and vulnerable, but as independent, flexible, and naturally commanding. No one will ever wonder why I don't wear dresses.

Why couldn't I have been born in a way congruent to my happiness? Or was I destined to be broken all along? What if I didn't have to wish for muscles and hair? Would I find this space of being any less repulsive?

I just want to be who I was supposed to be. I want to be wanted for myself. I want that self to be representative in and out.

Sigh.

Heavied I Write

I relish tonight with a heavy heart, filling with sorrow over things lost and never had. That spot of hope, a light in a darkness, makes the rest of the night look all that much blacker. A song can weigh on you, and the best option is to let it affect you. Listen, and cry. The release is unparalleled, except, perhaps, by genuine happiness. And when is happiness known as anything other than an afterthought?

To be acutely aware of one's position in space and the fragile fabric of emotionality is frightening. To say ignorance is bliss is more than just cliche. Where we truly are is often much less comfortable than we'd like to pretend. Unfortunately, ignoring one's feelings doesn't let one grow or experience all that it is to be human. That means pain, loneliness, depression, hopelessness, yearning, loss, and more. We'd be much better off addressing our emotions, and saying okay, this is where I am, so I will play a sad song, and I will cry through it, to feel better. I've held my head falsely high long enough. I am alone now. I can cry.

I will one day have a funeral, and hopefully before that, a wedding. There are two songs I request be played at these occasions: Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol, and Heartbeats by Jose Gonzalez.  I listen to them and just know that one day they'll be played at some time important. It's a sad hope that comes with being able to accept one's sadness. I'd like for them to be presented one day as a sort of victory ballad, for hardships overcome, for happiness, peace, rest attained.

I hate people

Why is the human race so different from the rest of the world that graciously hosts and nurtures us? We must be unnatural, because everything natural is perfect. There is no wrong in nature. Trees do not commit sin and birds do not act out of spite. Nothing in nature is purposefully harmful; even parasitic and amensalistic relationships serve purposes that maintain natural order. Anger does not exist in nature, simply fear and need. 

Humans are terrible. The human race has done nothing that benefits anyone other than themselves. One might argue, well what about animal rescues and eco-groups? Those would not be necessary if humans weren't around to have mucked things up in the first place. The world would be a much more balanced place without mankind. Nature has taken care of itself since the beginning of time, and would've been just fine without us.

Why is it we call the dark side of humanity "animalistic"? Lack of control and perverse behavior is not animalistic; it is human. Animals don't harm out of enjoyment. They harm when they need to eat or when they need to protect themselves (or perceive a need). In an animal's mind, everything is NECESSARY to survival or some semblance of comfort.

Perhaps animals can be seen as selfish since their own skins are their main concern. I would not call that selfishness, I would call it self-preservation. And they not only care about themselves, they care about their species, their pack. The difference between them and us is that we go way beyond what is necessary for our survival. We are not simply self-preserving, we are truly selfish and greedy. We want to have more than others even if it does not truly benefit us.

People are disgusting, self-destructive, and immoral by their own definition (there is no other). We are suicidal, homicidal, jealous, and hateful. All of the "great" things we've done are only "great" for people, by our own standards, which mean nothing in the natural world. A wolf does not give a damn about your building, your car, your painting, or your published articles. If anything these accomplishments only accomplish damage to his natural home and way of life.

In summary, I would like to say that I hate people. They are inherently abhorrent compared to anything else, alive or abiotic. I just hope that when I die, my atoms will be reborn into something much, much better.

Her Pursuer

The heavy spirit walks alone
With her pursuer close behind
A sense of indebtedness
A gasping curiosity
Who is that phantasm at her shoulder?

Alone in speech but not in touch
Her whiskered shadow keeps him away
Daily offerings this prowler brings
Feathered, furred
In order to appease the pursuer
To keep his heavy hand off of her
For now, until light turns to night

The shadow sees on other planes
Where it's master has no sway
It stares her pursuer
In the hollow eyes
And momentarily he is stunned
At this shadow's bold presence

She sits down for a rest
Tired from the weight of existence
Beside her curled up shadow
Which perks it's ears
And looks behind her
Her only guardian
From the relentless pursuer

Thoughts aloud for once

To be unhappy with the world is expected.

To be unhappy with oneself is tragic.

A quarter-life crisis, perhaps. Nearing two decades with eyes opened, eyes changed, an individual is meant to solidify. Not so idealistic, for you have seen failure brought on by good intentions. Not so hopeful, for you have been disappointed. Not so invincible, for you have experienced loss.

Friends are nearer and more vital, but fewer. Family no longer defines you. You're more alone than ever. You become independent, out of natural necessity as well as mistrust.

A cat is more than a fuzzy plaything. It is a constant, an embodiment of calm, of unconditional love, of forgiveness and stability. 

A feathered bird just hatched from an egg, shivering.