If you’re a bot, keep scrolling

I don’t think I hate myself anymore. It’s kind of nice to be human, at least some of the time.

The way we humans create, destruct, love, fight. The way we can say we, humans as a collective. A race, perhaps?

(I am writing this in blue pen. I have never liked blue pens, but will that mean these words will be any different? Maybe. We won’t know because I forgot to bring a black pen. Maybe these words will be better because they’re in blue pen. Or maybe I’m just overthinking the correlation between ink and thought process.)

Back to humans. Strip away the makeup, the hair, the skin, veins, bones and muscle. Pretend you’re left with just a brain. A pink, squishy brain. (I know you need those other parts to have your brain be functional, but put your morals aside for a sec, okay?) We humans are so interesting. We can be quiet, loud, dancers, criers, carers, lovers. We can also be anxious, sad, worried, inhuman, devastated. But we are all still human. Go to Google.com and look up “how unique are humans?” Do it. Read those articles and research papers. You are human.

But if I am honest, sometimes I wish I were a grain of sand, or a dandelion ligule, or a blade of grass in a massive plain of rolling hills. Insignificant but part of something much grander than we can all imagine, to create significance. I want to be inanimate and/or inhuman, but I am human.

I am insignificant and I am part of something bigger than me. That makes me significant, and that makes me human.