How To Be Human

In general, humans are social beings. We crave the hum of chatter in the background like white noise, clanking of fragile, stained mugs in the sink, or the dishwasher if you’re ‘fancy’. But we also enjoy the soft enveloping of bed sheets on skin, a breeze billowing softly on a Sunday morning. We fear being alone, but we also adore it, seek it out. I would say I am different to the crowed, insist I dislike company and people overall, but I also know that is a lie.

I like company when invited, dream about pearly white smiles and bright eyes spotting me on busy streets. But I enjoy the silence of an empty house, the hush as the door shuts. Click click click goes the pen against cheap paper in small notebooks, as does the buzzing of a million thoughts flowing in one direction, a change of heart from the bee-hive bedlam strained madness.

We are afraid of getting hurt, but also know how to create the sting of both fresh pain and renewed lust. A full pot simmering, ready to boil, bubble and be spoiled.

I am a coil of rusted wires, watched by the cat on an old, stone wall. But I am also the glint in his eyes when catching a bird, the shimmer of gold medals in the sunshine. Humans are social beings. But humans are afraid to be human. We are overgrown, balder monkeys, with a fear of ourselves and things that go bump in the night. I sprint upstairs when turning out the last light.

I think humans have forgotten how to be human, or what it even is to be human. Evening chatter has turned to the change present in the wind, like the colours of leaves changing and then falling every September. I think if all the years the earth has existed translated into seasons, we would be in autumn, when flowers and shrubs and the leaves off of trees begin to wilt and melt away into cold emptiness. The world is going into a winter of sorts, right here in the middle of June.

Humans are also beginning their winter, forgetting how to be human.

But winter always ends and then spring comes again, fresh and new, a long awaited smiling baby. Some of us can even thrive in the dark, frozen morning, holding gloved hands and skidding across invisibly iced roads, underneath a flickering of neon light and the electric hum and buzz. In through the doors of the heaven with books, paper cup full of hot, life-starting, inspirational juice, to rejuvenate weary bones and brains. We are ritualistic; predictable and adaptable.

Humans have forgotten how to be human and we are creating the role anew. Life is a long, theatrical scene. We can be villainous and mean, we can be frightened, or we can be a hero. Sometimes we are all of this at once.

I think we all need reminders of how utterly human we all are.


Head of a Skeleton With a Burning Cigarette – Vincent Van Gogh



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