Tired of Being Human

Sometimes, I think humans behave like chimps throwing shit at each other and screaming and waving their arms and jumping up and down to make a point.  Sometimes, I feel like humans have lost their ability to reason.

I don’t know why.  I don’t know what happened.  Maybe it’s the internet.  Maybe satellites.  Maybe the amount of information out there is so overwhelming we can’t handle it.  Our individual voice gets lost and with it our mind.

Or maybe we think the ability to reason requires an accumulation of “facts”.  Or maybe we think there is an ultimate “Truth” that needs to be found and cleaned off and revealed to the world.  Like a flower on some mountaintop.  Maybe a lily.

Or maybe I’m just tired of being human.  I’m tired of thinking that judgement is what makes me human.  I’m tired of defining.  I’m tired of putting things in boxes.  I’m tired of opinion after opinion, like stone on stone on stone.

I’m tired of being human.  If I have one more conscious thought, I don’t know what I will do.  I’m so desperate.  If I am called to draw one more conclusion I may just punch someone in the face.   How’s that for a conclusion?

My soapbox has no soap inside.  What good is it?  A soapbox should be pried open with a crowbar and the soap distributed and used.  Then the box used for something else.  Maybe a fire.  But now I am standing on my soapbox.  Moron.

This can’t be our burden; to be a monkey on a soapbox.  Is this really what makes us human – always flexing our judgement muscle.  Maybe it’s all bullshit.  Maybe we really are like the morning dew that comes back every morning.

I tell myself to relax.  I remind my lungs to do their thing.  I close my eyes because the ceiling is so oppressive right now.  I close the curtains because outside is mostly fumes, and the sun pokes through the scum with only half its heart.

I lie in bed and listen to the erhu; a Chinese two-stringed instrument that looks like a long-handled mallet, and sounds as dry as reed thatch.  Now as warm as a candle.  Now as cool as a cube of ice melting on my forehead.

I lie and listen.  And soon I am just listening.  The music continues.  It coos and moans and throbs.  It rises, the way I often rise from bed, stuck in a dream, still speaking with the dead.  And falls again, without restraint, without regret.

I am tired.  I have forgotten why.  The music is an egret side stepping along the bank of a lake;  a night heron walking on the water with a green fish in its mouth.  And the water – I could be the water – reflecting everything that passes by.

 

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