Are we human? Or are we dancers?
I am a human being.
What does that mean?
Does that mean I am to build duplexes, motor homes; automobiles? Does this incline me to paint my nails with chemicals I can't even pronounce and eat crackers with yellow powder than doesn't even have actual cheese on it?
Does it mean that I pass others of my kind on self made paths of stone byproduct without acknowledging that they too, are as I, human?
Is it human to spend hours in front of a blinking tube, filled with corporate messages that scream at us like hungry chicks, pleading to be fed with paper, cotton, plastic strips?
Is it in human nature to lust and love over shapely cookie cutter silicone hips and breasts, and ribs jutting out of the skin like waves on the ocean, backbones peering out like the Rockies?
Am I supposed to collect digital credits, zeros and ones, and trade them with others for food, love, and respect? Is that being human?
Every so often, I feel the cool oxygenated air, race along the fleshy, pulsating interior of my esophagus, filling my web of interconnected tubes that reside in my lungs; and then letting it out slowly, feeling my nerves greet me with signals of pleasure.
Sometimes I just stare, dissecting all that I see, letting my optic nerves carry the images of everything to my brain so it can caress the details of the illusion created by the side effect of our sun's radiation.
I let my skin sense the lick of the sun's glow, the whisper of Earth's massive convection, and simply, just feel itself.
It's times like these, I don't know if anyone knows what it's like to be human.
What does that mean?
Does that mean I am to build duplexes, motor homes; automobiles? Does this incline me to paint my nails with chemicals I can't even pronounce and eat crackers with yellow powder than doesn't even have actual cheese on it?
Does it mean that I pass others of my kind on self made paths of stone byproduct without acknowledging that they too, are as I, human?
Is it human to spend hours in front of a blinking tube, filled with corporate messages that scream at us like hungry chicks, pleading to be fed with paper, cotton, plastic strips?
Is it in human nature to lust and love over shapely cookie cutter silicone hips and breasts, and ribs jutting out of the skin like waves on the ocean, backbones peering out like the Rockies?
Am I supposed to collect digital credits, zeros and ones, and trade them with others for food, love, and respect? Is that being human?
Every so often, I feel the cool oxygenated air, race along the fleshy, pulsating interior of my esophagus, filling my web of interconnected tubes that reside in my lungs; and then letting it out slowly, feeling my nerves greet me with signals of pleasure.
Sometimes I just stare, dissecting all that I see, letting my optic nerves carry the images of everything to my brain so it can caress the details of the illusion created by the side effect of our sun's radiation.
I let my skin sense the lick of the sun's glow, the whisper of Earth's massive convection, and simply, just feel itself.
It's times like these, I don't know if anyone knows what it's like to be human.