Cynic

 The curse of self awareness encapsulates my perception of the world. Everyday is a crisis of horrific proportions, as I question my reality, my life, and my minuscule acts. I have this odd self of entitlement in that I have the arrogance to believe that how I brew my coffee will have an affect on the world. Yes, I do use free trade beans. Arn't I morally superior? I think such thoughts, and in the next breath hate myself for it.  As is easily apparent, I have the plight of thought. Such a scourge of humanity. I consider a subject, and after a long period of time, I then ponder the antithesis of that thought, the paradoxical truth of everything drives me nuts. 

Am I a fish or am I a dead flower?    

I study the woman across from me, sitting on the bus with a candy bar in her hand, anomalistically devouring the chocolate covered caramelized product with gleeful self pity. Her robust size makes me feel sick, and her lack of humanoid shame is repellent in every way possible. But dear god is she happy. That her hands are covered with a sugary coating of diabetic induced heaven is irrelevant within the narrow confinements of her consciousness. I hate her. I want to be like her. See? Paradoxical.

Compare this to the women on the other side of the bus. She holds her blonde haired head high with a translucent sense of supremacy. Her entire face is caked with make-up. Her half decently pretty exterior extends past her natural skin to such an extent that I feel her nose has grown like that of Pinoquio. I can see the tight strings of societal expectations pulling her in every directions, telling her to be skinny, curvy, pretty, unique, feminine, anti-feminine, strong, passive, and lord knows what else, without informing her that, cue overhead announcement "you can only pick one!" 

Alas, these two human beings represent a small population sample of a much larger endemic problem, the human condition. For every person like I, who thinks to much, there is another opposite, a humanoid who thinks to little. Beings of such minimalist cranial capacity, that the act of fornication is representative as the greatest pleasure known to man. Hobby-less zombies that dance to the strings of puppeteers overhead, who use propaganda and well versed phrases to enthral the masses with pretty colours and fantastic breasts! I am a lover of breasts myself, unable to suppress my inane hormonal responses to the simplest of sexual images. 

With all that in mind, I fear, and I may know, that I am even more pathetic then the above beings I have listed. For I am representative of another group of people, another population sample of humanoid beings who follow, and listen, and consider, but are still zombified. The difference is we know it. We fight against the raging river of conformity, attempting to scream no, as we use every swimming technique we know. Still, we fall to the strong current, and decide, to hell with it, if we can't fight it, we might as we record the fucker. Within our mind there is a vain hope that if we are able to document the lunacy of humanity, and throw out a blind S.O.S that the future generations will find a way to redirect the stream, and make humanity a worth while species. To be honest. I doubt it.