Take from this what you will

Sometimes it’s difficult not to notice that, despite how many of us collectively the human condition applies to, we remain unsympathetic and unreasonable towards one another. We are guarded about ourselves to a point of paranoia, what we want, strive for, what we think; exactly who we are at our very core. We mark the four corners of our daily lives with an atmosphere of judgment and scrutiny, turning it into a walled arena of competition, factious cut-throat and dogmatic instead of some kind of community that is symbiotic and open-minded

We randomly weave in and out of each other’s lives, treating those around us like merchandise we willfully use for varying periods with no intention of buying only to reject and discard. Like a jacket or blouse that contours snugly to our bodies, worn until just before or well after a grace period, we are unceremoniously slid off and returned in a crumpled pile to the retailer.

The fervor of that day trying it on, its luster in the mirror, and then under the city lights, for all to see is abruptly gone, and what no one really saw was how they never removed the security tag, or that they would find something wrong with it…And it is shed the way a snake sheds a layer of skin.

I’m bored with this now; It’s served its temporary purpose; Oh, you didn’t know?—I never had any intention of actually keeping this…

So there we lie, wrinkled and dusty in the bottom of some bin or on the dusty linoleum store-front floor, still contoured to those shoulders, to that torso and that neck as others walk over, on top of or to the side of us without a second thought.

We are alienated from one another until someone perceives us as useful in some capacity, in as much as we’ve got something they want. We are a means to the end of someone’s satisfaction, a utility to fix or occupy a space, or the satiation of some kind of appetite. If a situation of co-dependence arises, emotional or psychological attachments, then we are kept in the mix:

I can’t find anyone better than this; No one else will have this level of patience; No one else performs this task like he/she does…

You are either player or spectator. You get only what you win or what you take. You are at all times balancing on a tightrope subject to fickle head-winds, at all times prone to failure, at all times replaceable. Your methods must be subtle and opportunistic.

I am twenty-four years old. It’s an age-range characterized by transition and discovery, by screwing up, and making fly-by-night decisions. Stages of life at this juncture are ephemeral and constantly shifting, each one more indicative of a layover than destination. But I have no intrinsic talent for this callous, elitist game, nor do I subscribe to its rules. I have no masks to wear in front of people. My words and actions are often misunderstood. Honesty and enthusiasm, randomness and spontaneity are translated as ineptitudes and weaknesses. There are always some who feign friendliness and civility as a kind of charity. It is not an in fact an act of charity, but one of some self-aggrandizement and put-on altruism, the way some people pity a tramp by tossing some change or a few patronizing words in their direction.

Well, I kinda feel bad for him; I mean I feel like I kinda HAVE to, you know?

Sympathy is not pity. It is empathy; it is mindfulness of the discomfort and/or suffering of another person you live, work or exist in close proximity to, and the acknowledgement that as characters in the same narrative the existential weights stifling them are in no way foreign to us. When someone forgets the words to their favorite song, or how to step to it, just tap out a slight beat to walk to, whistle a tune to help them remember, and go about your business.

There are times I wonder if people, even the ones I grow fond of and care about, see in my eyes reflected back at them the things they don’t like about themselves, scared at what the game’s top scorers may have to exploit. Sometimes I feel as though I am being forcibly tailored into this kind of lifestyle of seclusion, growing ever distant from it all.

It’s high tide; sunrise and sunset; death and taxes; steroids in baseball—it’s just an immutable fact of life and even the best of people seem to be caught up in it. However, choosing to exist on the fringe is a choice to dim the beacon we are supposed to shine—the magnetism of love, compassion and enthusiasm which in turn draws it back to us from others.

And so, every day is an effort to extricate myself from this dour mold, and weave myself in the collective inseam of the world around me, somehow finding those with whom I share an understanding while avoiding the knots, tangles and snarls inherent in it.

Is it like this everywhere?