What does it mean to be human?
I’ve asked myself this question many times. I’ve spent my entire life studying these odd creature in attempt to better understand them. I’ve infiltrated their inner circles and even learned their ways in passing.
You many notice that I’m talking about humans as if I’m not one myself. That’s because I’ve never felt like one. I feel like I’m the narrator of everyone’s lives, and it’s my job to watch and document.
Crazy, right? I know. I know I’m crazy.
When the world was normal, I used to sit on a bench in the square and watch all the passing people. I would study them, take notes, and learn. Humans fascinate me. Such complex creatures. Not like a common pet, no, humans are more intricate than that. They work eight hour shift on jobs they hate to provide for themselves and their families, they actively seek heartbreak in the hands of another, they spend their free time doing mundane “hobbies”, and they bitch about it when they realize they’re wasting their time. I find it quite odd, in fact.
Why do they do these things? What drives them? What motivates them? Are these thing the foundation of humanity?
That’s the big question.
When I’d watch the people, I see how different they are. I saw everything from wacky, green haired college kids to suburbs housewives. I’d notice how everyone seems to have a role in life. The college kids were student; the housewives were mothers. It made me contemplate my role in life.
What am I? I’m the narrator. I sit silently in the background and watch. Nobody knows I exist, and I’m often ignored. I’m a ghost in the corner of the screen.
I am not a mother; I am not a student. I’m not a wife or a girlfriend. I’m not a businesswoman or a corporate pig. Hell, I’m not even a functioning member of society. I’m the lonely narrator. I document the extraordinary so that future generations can learn.
Every now and then I experience brief moments of what I think it means to be human. Maybe I make a mistake. Maybe I fall in love. Maybe, on my worst days, I get angry. Are these the things that make me one of you, or are they the things that separate me?
I don’t feel things the way others do. I don’t understand emotion like that. I don’t know how to love, or how to hate. Maybe that’s normal, but I wouldn’t know. All I know is from observation.
I remember when I started puberty that I hated my body. I’d do everything I could not to see the abomination in the mirror. I wouldn’t put on those frilly dresses, or wear makeup at all. Worst of all I was afraid. I was scared of the way I felt; I thought it was wrong. I never told anyone because I was terrified of the consequences. Fear is human, right?
And the first time I fell in love. I ran home and told my parents about this stupid boy that made my heart flutter (it’s as cheesy as it sounds, yuck). Sadly, with love comes heartbreak. It sucks even more when your first love is unrequited.
This is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling human. I think these are my only relatable experiences with humanity. Everything else is told from the perspective of a robot; that’s what I am now.
I’m a robot. (As I write this, I’m realizing how odd this all sounds. It makes me look crazy, doesn’t it 😔).
I’m just gonna wrap this up here before you start thinking I’m some sort of weirdo. Who am I kidding, you probably already figured that out (what normal person think they’re not human?).