Your Human is Showing

Quote for today: Life is what happens while we are busy making other plans.

Ok, so here is some of it anyway.

I am writing in a haste today with a book upon my knee because I have so many thoughts and ideas that I need to pin down to this page. To catch and stick down like insects on a styrofoam board. They buzz 'round my ears incessantly.

On coming into my own:
I have more and more each day been forgiving myself and accepting the imperfection that is being human. I am making an honest effort to allow myself that at least. Of an arm gesture here and a fumble there, what does anyone make of it anyway? To constantly remind myself that yes, I am human, that dastardly form. I have two arms/legs, two eyes, things that come in twos, for what reason I don't know, perhaps balance? And then to exclaim to myself in the corners of my mind, "Do not be so fixated on these things!! Surely at some other point in time, another human has had this same posture, this same stance, committed this same fumbling!" And as we are all but human, that is precisely what we are meant to do. So that when I, in all my self conscious frenzy, am showing great concern about what others will think, how others might view me and what tragic accident or folly will befall me if they all discover that I am truly as human as they, I can finally then remove the blindfold, give my head a shake a little and realize to my own surprise and chagrin that truly, I have not been noticed at all, which could be an even greater tragedy considering my whole hearted belief in my central location in this universe. So notwithstanding my own world revolving ideals and ambitions, I have been and continue to go unrecognized. And in this charming state of anonymity, I still exist, and I can behold myself in all of my private thoughts and begin to dedicate myself to becoming a model that is not necessarily perfect but human, of which I can put on display. A model or motivation which uncovers my secret inner being and allows me secrecy no longer. To come into my own. To become human and at the exact same moment display that humanity as it ought to be, as it is and not as a form of some other illusion. All of my illusions have been betrayed! In this positive glow of becoming, I now see clearly what it means to be different. Oh to be different! To absolutely revel in it! I have never quite understood it. How two people can get along, where others can not. That being a casualty of my perfect chameleon skin. Not once having a problem with other humans, concentrating all of my energy mainly to ensure with accuracy and skill every time that they would fail to find a flaw within me. Becoming that which is adored for a short while, but pull away come midnight for fear the pumpkins would reveal themselves and her dress in tattered rags. And so as my magical charade comes to a close and my fleeting fancies dissuade me, I must exit the masquerade and allow this world to uncover me. This sort of behind the scenes look at who I can really become, besides just a puppet on a string. The curtain is coming down for me and it is time to pack up the glitter, go home and put on the flannels and come into my own. Welcome to my beautiful alive. This is a bright, excited alive. One can't help but notice especially when one encounters an idealist such as myself who is completely thrilled in regards to where exactly the focus of all things ought naturally to be and could not possibly be mistaken.

The nutty bourgeois in me: I have decided that I am an elitist but not in the way everyone expects. For the most part, I am just giddy with disillusionment. It used to be different, I had such high hopes. Back in university, we had a promise. Everyday it seemed I was constantly drowning in that promise that I was one of the elite few, the treasured, the golden children of a generation, the educated and career bound, one of a unique group of mind challengers/brain users. And I took bites of all of this and swallowed it down, content with this ever important knowledge and proud to spend thousands of the government's dollars, wading up to my neck in debt with this smugness that it was worth every penny to be a broke starving student for five years of my pittance of a life. Yada yada. Just to be a member of this secret, elite club. To remind myself that even if all of my dreams didn't come true, it would be really, truly, genuinely, down to the bottom of my heart worth every drop of blood. I have been like a prisoner, so grateful to serve the time knowing that he finally belongs somewhere. I hope you sense my bitter sarcasm. I have only just recently realized that all of this is a big sham, but it worked. It really did. I am still here in this pot aren't I? This money pit. An advertising ploy each and every one of my professors was paid to employ in order to ensure that we as drones feel a sense of elite belonging and will yearn to return time and again to have our pockets emptied. 'You are the elite few that can make a difference in this world. You are the educated. You will rule the world!! Bwahahahahaha!!'
So then, why is it that now that I have finished my magical tour, when I have, according to the institution, become rehabilitated from rude peasant to professor of that same stiffness about the collar, and fulfilled every requirement of a specific education so much so that they will all now consider me over-qualified, as though there is nothing left to teach me in this life, why now do I feel so unprepared, incapable and even betrayed? To pull the wool off of my eyes for the first time and discover that my collar really isn't that stiff after all and that the magic, mind altering, attractive, genius enhancing potion that they have been feeding me; dumping down my throat in fact and drowning me in for all these years has nought but the strange and suspicious likeness to that of cherry wine with no magical properties whatever and all of the bitterness about it. And yet, I still uphold an elitist's confidence which I recognize to be as thin a veil as air but at the same time which I grasp onto with such a violent fervour for fear of life and death. We shall see how time passes in this life.

That's all there is to say. I can always tell when I am done writing. My brain just shuts down and no more thoughts will come. There I will be, writing furiously with such an adrenaline that it surprises me sometimes that the callouses on my fingers remain uncracked, half expecting them to split open and run down to the keys where my words land like sparks ready to ignite only to be quenched by the flow. My cursor skipping across the lines as a flint, awaiting the charged blow. And then it all stops, it falls silent. Then I can tell that I am done. Houselights go on, the magician steps out from his hiding place, the vanishing act revealed. No more to ponder. Nevertheless, it is all to be replaced, next show. I have completely run out of fuel. Imagine, to write until you have nothing else to say or think. Isn't it the brain's major function to think? To shut down this main feature of the body's most vital organ is quite impressive indeed. I am not thinking clearly at all anymore.