I’m human. I like to pretend that I’m not, but I am. I survive off of a combination of simple gas mixtures, water and carbon. My brain works primarily by processing glucose. I’ve got a weak-ass keratin based covering called skin. I’m human. I hate it, but I am. I guess the worst part of it all is the sheer reality of it. It sucks. It may be a bit of a red herring to say my humanity is my biggest issue, though. I think my beef is much larger in scale. I think I’m unhappy with existence, period.
Now before the six readers that have discovered this post decide to flood my comment section with suicide hotline numbers, allow me to clarify. I’m not unhappy with life. I love waking up everyday. I enjoy every sip of the gaseous cocktail I pump into my lungs. I’m good with all of that. I’m just bored with reality—and not just my reality, but all of it. I’m fed up with the rules and regulations of existence.
I started writing when I was in elementary school. As fantastical as it may sound, one of my earliest memories of story telling is from fifth grade. My English teacher would give us spelling words; maybe ten or so per week. One of the weekly assignments surrounding them was to write sentences using the words to show that we understood their definitions as well as how to use them properly. However, instead of writing ten sentences, as the assignments would generally call for, I would write a short story using the words. I didn’t do it for extra credit or for recognition. I did it because I enjoyed weaving tales. I loved learning the words and I had a very good imagination.
As I got older, my vocabulary grew and my creativity sprouted new petals. I started writing more and more. Eventually I made my way to writing longer stories. I’d write stories about my siblings. I’d write biographies about people I’d never met. I just fell deeper and deeper in love with the craft. Eventually, fiction became my home. The more I’d write, the more unbelievable the stories would be. Brick houses were edible. Clouds could be weaponized. Planets were playgrounds for intergalactic chess pieces and no longer just distant twinkling lights. Writing took me to places that I could only imagine, literally.
But as all stories must come to an end, reality always has to return. Once the last punctuation mark is placed, I fall back to Earth at 9.8 meters per second squared. Skyscraper are no longer sleeping earthworms that survived centuries to grow to those heights. Mice don’t speak Russian. Apples don’t climb back up trees when there aren’t any witnesses to their fall. I’m back to being a protagonist with a very predictable chapter to live through. Reality sucks.
I wish I was able to manipulate this existence just once. I know I have the power to change a lot, but I’ll never be able to pluck the moon from the night sky to put on my child’s floor for her to play with. I’ll never have the opportunity to taste lava in order to settle the argument of whether it’s more cinnamon flavored than salty. I’ll never sprout beetle wings. I’ll have to settle for conjuring these scenarios in my imagination and writing about them.
I suppose I’m thankful for the opportunity to exist. I really am, but it can be so dreadfully mundane at times. I guess I can always dream, though. That’s one thing I’m capable of, but I’d really like to taste that lava once.