Being Human

To speak of life. Life as a human. Being human. 

So tremendously difficult. Language. Words to talk about the World. Like trying to throw a lasso around a hurricane. 

Too big. Too deep. Too varied. 

To speak of being human. 

Genocides and ice cream.

Transcendent love and hemorrhoids. 

Final goodbyes and tax documents.

Up and down and all around. 

Is it beautiful? Is it madness? Is it Truth? Is it necessary? Is it cruel? Is it a joke? Can we overcome it? Would we even like the outcome if we did? 

None of us chose to be here. 

Good and evil. Useless I think. An opportunity to puff ourselves up. 

Impulse. Drive. Direction. Chaos and order. 

And I must - must I? - maintain the humility to say that perhaps I know nothing about anything. How could I? 33 years amongst the millennia of us? 

Sensation. Qualia. To feel. To experience. What, if anything, would exist without it? Nothing we’d know of certainly. Nothing we’d care about. 

The two halves of our universe: the feeling and the unfeeling. The experiential and everything else. 

I’m running out of steam to write. The premature ejaculation of the creative. I thought I had so much to say.