j.

What makes us human, really?

An hour ago before this post, a friend of mine said that I looked very similar to a friend of mine. Of course, that would mean little to many, and some might not even put the indirectly demeaning sentence in their heads.

But I do.

Oh yes, I do. A plethora of thoughts hit my head with such intensity it exploded into a million thousand pieces, its fragments hitting the walls that I put up with. I am... Ordinary. A normal peasant. I am not me. I look like someone else, I act like someone else, I am someone else. 

Of course, that mere sentence of comparison probably slipped through the tip of her tongue like mumbling a couple of swear words, but with this I can only further infer that we are all just made of flesh and bones, and nothing else more. No knowledge, no wisdom, no power to control our lives. Our powers only lie in what other humans perceive about us, and how we change according to these thoughts these other humans project.

The magnitude of language is apparent here, not because of what people say and how they would make us feel, but it makes us want to improve. However, what is there to improve? To feel ordinary and wanting to be more is something that we humans can never do, what I, a mere human, a Chinese in a near third world country, a son of two fathers, can never achieve. 

Instead of 'he/she looks like you', it is 'you look like him/her'. Our thoughts are trained to compare a fellow human with another fellow human, to objectify everything and to scrutinise every single detail. 

'Your hair looks untidy!'

'Hey, what happened to your usual clothes?'

We associate certain humans with certain traits, and ascertain ourselves with the fact that we might, and am extraordinary, a being that makes us different. Our lives are so intertwined with lies, it amuses me to see how we are all objectifying each other and yet, near to no one realises it. All we do is talk, eat, sleep, and utilise our memory muscles to define who we are and what we think of. Our stars are all aligned to make us feel superior, but in fact, we are inferior to others, a speck in this sad little blue ball we live in.

As my friends and my girlfriend are laughing over matters that will never interest me across the table, I can only contemplate how naive I am to always believe that we are all different, that we are all controllers of our own minds and thoughts, and never having to use our brain cells to differentiate different humans.

We do, and it makes me inhuman.

confused.

My life is a walking, speaking and a thinking lie.

It revolves itself around matters that does not matter at all, and all it does is scream its name to beyond, hoping to find an answer to this already dead planes that consists of nothing but walking blobs of blood tissues with a hint of intelligence embedded into their little brains.

If there is ever a superhero that my life can be compared to, it would be the Silver Surfer. Destined to have certain talents but will never be able to fully use it. To want to be wanted but cursed to eternal cosmic loneliness with himself, allying to others only when needed. Taking the trouble to be a hero for others but never getting the credit he deserves. It seemed inevitable that people would alienate him; he had a silver cosmic surfboard, his skin is silver and he is from a planet eons away from Earth.

But what about me?

What about me, a human, made with flesh and bones, with the same brain as a normal human would? Why am I being ostracized from society? How, exactly am I different from any one of you?

Being a human is such a chore. To satisfy others and wanting to be satisfied. I wonder what the Silver Surfer would do if he was to exist. Would he stab corporate villains in their hearts and slaughter religious abusers? Would he become a hero and be worshiped by millions of humans in this pathetic world we call home? Would he raise hell in general and leave no one alive?

I would not know, because after all, I am just a human.

Just.