I Am A Human, And Ashamed Of My Kind

By Achilles Rasquinha:

Although born on this fertile earth of ‘ours’, I call it ‘mine’. I hate to share space with my brethren. I kill all those who walk on ‘my’ land, who wish to eat its fruits, quench thirst from its streams, who wish to be nurtured. I fail to be selfless, I fail to question my values, and I fail to embody its fertile elements. I am human, and ashamed to be.

I fail to distinguish myself from the others. I kill them all who think unlike me; I am insane. I kill my neighbours and so do they over lines and curves drawn by chalk or iron rods, over infinite space provided by the earth, over bitter fruits which turn futile, over fearful love. I collect, keep collecting and perish; never did I ever use them while I lived. I live in spacious space beyond my needs, an endless sea across the balcony but failed to cherish its beauty. Worthless, I failed to distinguish what it means to live in a ‘house’ made of brick and stone, and what it means to live in a selfless ‘home’. I live under electric lights in comfort, but never walked out to light up the dark niches of the earth. I continue to live and eat on blood-stained money and die on a lavish bed, but never did I attempt to glimpse at the man who fell impoverished on the unknown street. I wait to be buried in the finest wood of all while I turn into ash, but fail to bury the true men of the earth. My life is worthless in place of theirs.

I talk about respect for women while I view my neighbor with lustful eyes. I laugh on homosexual couples as they make genuine love and profess their pride, but curtain my flaws that exist within my relations. I laugh at them, mock them and curse them while my heart continues to be pierced with thorns. I fail to love a woman; I fail to distinguish skin and bone. I praise about their pride, but restrict rules to my own spouse. I fail to embrace the man with a slight contrast of skin woolen and knitted over him, I call him dirty names and make him taboo to the world, it was I who remained a reason to all this. I scandalize others’ tales of life to all, but ashamed to reveal the stain encrypted on mine, a void which eats me within. I question someone else’s lies, but avoid to listen my own dirty truths. I kill them all, men and women over a name whose existence remains a mystery while I’ve been killed over flawed blasphemy. I blindly see innocence within the eyes of a king’s new born child, but however fail to see the same while the juvenile on the concrete street. I fail to see the innocence in his eyes filled with dust and tears, working underneath the burning rays of the sun penetrating through his veins, while the chill air fills within my solace. This is me, I am human.

It is I who boasts about eating with pride at every outlet, it is I who feels disgust while the poor quenches his thirst with muddy water. It is I who wastes grains and seeds; it is I who fails to see the vulture waiting to peck the drained child about to be dead. It is I who wears tagged outfits with pride, it is I who mock the rugged cloth others wear. I am me, a human and ashamed to be.

I talk about changes and revolutions, but fail to wake up from my seat. I wait for others to begin a spark while I fail to cherish else’s worth, their victories and achievements. I taunt someone who attempts to change while I sit and brag about my ciphered false works for the society.

Evolution has played the greatest joke on me, for I seem less evolved than any other creature. I demand for peace, for selfless living lives while being played under the strings of other’s idiosyncrasies. I remained human, never humane. Worthless, lifeless as I seem — I am human, and ashamed to be.