on being human

why do i sometimes feel like writing, so much that i have to stop what i am doing, sit down, and spill out words? why do i feel that ache for expression?

why do we have to be so pretend sometimes? why do we feel like we have to play games? what makes us want to be something other than real?

how can my heart feel so huge and overflowing, like it is clobbering all my other organs one night, and so debilitatingly empty the next morning?

why is the natural man so prideful? why do i feel a twinge of jealousy amidst the happiness when i hear of a dear one's gladness or success? why does that grass over there look so dang green?

how can i be so lazy? why do i feel so tired sometimes?

it's been nearly a year. why does my heart still hurt sometimes? why?

why do i sweat and breakout and get throbbing headaches? why do i have poor vision and fat fingers?

why do we rashly do things that we methodically regret?

why do i hate being left out or missing out? why do i care about things i can't control or that don't really matter? why do i feel like i need my worth to be validated?

why do i forget things so easily? why do i have to keep learning the same lesson over and over and over again?

how can i be so scared of not having something that i've only just tasted? how is it possible for me to want something intangible and undefinable so so very very much?

it's because i'm human and i'm having a mortal experience.

i chose this mortal experience; i'm sure i begged for it; i bet i insisted i would be strong enough.

to feel all of these woes and sensations and aches of mortality.

and i shouted for joy to become indefinitely alive.

i love being human.