I Need To Be Human Again.
By Tracy Williams.
I have read so many articles and things that I cannot begin to fathom that this could ever end. The human creativity of ink and paper, keys and invisible cyberspace.
I sit and think, “What could I possibly say that hasn’t been said? What’s different from before? What combinations of words that are overwhelmingly exciting are left?”
Here I sit every night with these spaces in my mind. Cracks that are filled in with a virtual non-reality, all so I do not have to deal with my own consistent questioning of the world.
I sit in silent screams staring at screens while my insides crave to touch humanity. I am convinced that I am connecting. But in all sense, there is still only one thing that does not keep me from completely unraveling, free-falling into an abyss of the Universe. Secretly hoping that gravity and all laws of physics do not default one day, so all that would be left is me floating into space. All the while I try to grip on to anything I can on my way out of this world and back into everything my soul is made up of… Breathe…
I realize… there is not one specific set of rules.
I can do anything my heart seeks out if I let it.
And I cannot commit to anything except love.
And just maybe this other thing that keeps me chasing my own tail, called ‘Happiness’.
Who the hell decided that my happiness, my love, my strength, my soul must fit in these lines, these laws, these set rules my fellow-man has set before me?!
I am not you! You cannot contain me! I am alive and I took a long time to get here! I am the Universe in this contorted upright fumbling package named after my mother. (And no, I am not a junior.)
I am alive and thoughtful. I have the choice to howl at the moon because it is in my blood to feel it.
I need the earth and everything in it. I need dirt under my fingertips and fruit between my lips.
Let me swallow my sense of self for a moment and breathe in air purified by trees that have grown roots so deep it pains me to think of the stillness they encompass.
Let me run… so fast that my lungs hurt, so they feel that they will explode with just an ounce more of oxygen consumed. I am in need of feeling the burn of life and the rush of faith that I let my legs carry out.
Bring me back to where I began. I beg of you. Because I can do no more deals of empty cyber-commitment. This connection of non-connection. I need human love.
I fade back to memories of my grandmother when she was well. She always put me on a pedestal. And she said, “You’re really great at anything.”
I laughed as she marveled over my mediocre doodles of her yard. This was me… connecting to what I could at 16. Craving attention and love but hating the commitment of teenage blood-rushing embarrassment.
You see, that is what we all want. Love. It is in our DNA. Who the hell wants to talk to a computer when we can understand sweet songs of human voices?
Yes, yes, it is fun for a bit… but who is having fun when the recorded voice says, “I’m sorry I’m having trouble understanding you. Let me repeat your options again.”
No! Do not repeat my options. I want a human being’s attention. One who knows my intonation, and my anger at your stupid phone line that never freaking works! Half the time I would not be as frustrated if I could just hear a person say ‘Hello’ the first time.
Give me more grandmothers in real-time, in real space, with real thoughts to connect to generations of children who have been lost in cyberspace since in utero. Just give us love!
And in the end… I still sit here in my room staring back at this screen, all I can fathom is that I might just know nothing.
Nothing of my own existence other than ‘it just is’.
Nothing of my own happiness other than ‘I alone own it’.
With every bit I can muster, I realize I know nothing of love.
Except that I have it. And I do not know where to keep it all.
I created this little way of holding on; it keeps me going on these days when it is hard to find my human self. It lets me know I am alive. I have these pieces of my love, and I keep them safe in others’ hearts, so that, in the end, when we are all together in our endless slumber, minus all the technology and complicated self-implied fundamentals, I can hope that they will find their way back to the common ground where it all began.
Tracy Williams is a hairstylist and mom by day, and inner heart journalist by night, searching in every way for all she was ever destined to be. You can contact Tracy on Facebook.