What is Human, I begin to ask…
If to be human is to feel loved, then I feel non-human,
If to be human is to procreate, then I feel inhuman.
Even if the human is the gardener, in the kindest, clearest, blue-ish world,
Then I feel inhuman.
If to be human is to loathe, then I feel most certainly incapable of humanity, which is slightly strange and sad. If it is to exist within a group, and submit to a social stacking order, I even then feel not a human, but a near observer. Of a hive that is not quite my own, but is still the most accessible to my body-bound mind.
Attention diverts to the outside of a mind…
There is something wrong about the house. I shan’t even call it ‘my house’, as it feels completely not my own. Nor even Rowett’s, or the real landlord’s- perhaps more like the old man’s, who lives next door, and has done for many, many years.
Even then though, I feel he would take ownership of this house from a distance, as if knowing it’s rightful owner needed their claim to the stain of the bricks to be respected and left alone.
It breathes dust, ash, dirt and smog. All contents turn soon to a kind of trash, and clamber over one another in order to reach the little light.
I want to leave this house. It is uncomfortably temporary, and uncomfortably permanent.