living nonliving

The mind never makes sense. I can’t begin to fathom why it works as it does, but I also know it’s chemical. Then again, I hate that stupid response. Yes, we are science, and yes, we are all generally the same code. But why won’t you shut up? We are individuals that are connected. We cannot fit into those boxes. It is too complex and there is an exception to every exception. We cannot be included or excluded, we are everywhere and everyone. More fungus than not.
Do not make the mistake of seeing life as different for all but same for all. Nothing is repeated yet nothing is identical. We believe so much yet so little. The idea that all is false is entirely possible yet impossible, and here math says nothing is impossible. Too many rules and silly statements I try to not dwell on.
I am becoming simplified. My thoughts grow less unique in my perspective, but how should I know? I am one person but I also have the capability of being many. Such connections amongst all make imitation the easiest art. I can be who you want, who they want, yet not who I want. Who do I want? And why do I feel such an urge to change? And for who? Certainly not for you but almost entirely so.
I have no knowledge of you but I know you. I know your wonder and your worries and your fear and your love. I know what your breath is and your heart and your blinking. I know the structure of you. All we are is structure. Made from one assembly line with thousands of little hands with imperceptible differences passing down to us.
Can you grasp as I do? Match me perfectly until there is no me, no you, only us? You can’t, but maybe you can if we follow the rule of logic. Why logic? Why not simple belief? Because simple no longer exists. There is too little and too much belief that words no longer encapsulate. Is it possible to have too much worry now, or is it just a different type? We worry about money, paying bills, spreading our hobbies and responsibilities. Is it possible that the stress of hunter gatherers match this in a similar format? Yes. We live to survive, no longer to love.
Love is secondary in life when it is meant to be life in a way we can express. I can’t gift you life so I gift you love. Only one does so and I am not yet a mother. Maybe I never will be. This is a possibility faced throughout time by mirrors of me, and yet that fear is as strong as always.
I am upset that I cannot live. We make life so easy, so efficient, only to get ourselves stuck in complexities. I want to swim, eat, breathe, fly, love, cry, hug, hold, be held, and match. This I cannot do because you say no, or maybe you don’t. I don’t know anything even when I want to know it all.
I can’t understand. I use big words and whatever sounds good. This is me but not me. The me I want to express is blank faced and screaming. She He They cry. Who am I if not a mess made by my own love? I love so hard that I hate what I see.
If I continue on, who will know? The answer can be none or it can be all or it can be love. So many possibilities.
I want to be known. I want to be loved. Be appreciated. Be seen as I am. I want to be told who I am so maybe the hurt will make sense and I can stop. What would I be stopping? Surely not the loathing I don’t have, the anger, the perpetual despair, the lingering sadness, the confusion, the cloudiness, the total and complete darkness. No.
I am human until I decide to love unconditionally. Until I decide to breathe easily. Until I decide that it is worth the risk or it isn’t. Until I rest. Until I do something just to do it.
I am not human. I feel anger at small things like breathing and talking and walking. The noises of society. Are my ears not made for them? What am I for? Love? Hate? The thorn in someone's mind? A scorn on the face, a blotch on the bloodline? Am I not a human?
If I am not human, then I will be love. I will And I will do so with the understanding that I already am these things.
I aspire to be forgotten but inescapable. I haunt my own narrative and live to spite myself. No one holds greater importance in my life and that only increases my hate. Who am I to be so selfish to care for myself above all else? I’m not. I have taught myself to love, to heal, to smile, to think, to understand, and to hate.
I say words but that is a lie. I can say I am a writer but that is a lie. I am nothing but everything. I am everything but nothing. I am in the air and taking it back, turning it into me until it is gone. I absorb without giving. I contribute so little yet so much. In insignificant ways I am significant. As are you.
See the beauty and become it for it is you. It has always been you.
We create in our image of love. Don’t hate the creation made so tenderly, so carefully.