Neuf.

What’s more irritating than the human species, you ask? Simple! It’s one that needs to know everything. By this I don’t mean the respectable pursuit of knowledge found in universities, but on a more common level. It’s the need of the human species to know everything their fellow human is doing within their day-to-day lives.

The other day I was on the train, a routine I do almost daily, when I decided to play a game of break breaker on my phone. Not the most thrilling game, but one nonetheless helps in passing time. During this time a young man sits next to me. Choosing not to pay attention to him, I continue to play my game when I notice him looking over my shoulder. Let me correct myself here: he was staring at what I was doing on my phone.

I don’t like to be watched by others. The government already watches me without my authorization I’m sure, so I think that’s already enough. So, feeling his presence I decided to exit my game. I can still feel him watching my activity on my phone. I get the brilliant idea of opening my memo pad, where I can write notes to myself, and figure to teach this young watchful man to mind his own business.

In my memo pad, in which at this time he now also staring at, I decide to indirectly communicate with this man. “Hi, do you have a fucking problem, sir?” I write. I follow this sentence by looking at him stone-faced.

This man is either not dedicated to his field of being nosey, or he had had enough of my antics because right after this episode he abruptly got up and moved to another seat. His face was in complete shock and I love it! Even now I replay the event in my head and summon the very same joyful reaction as I had the first time.

I’m quite sure he’ll next time elect to stare at the ground.

Huit.

Books are an excellent substitute for parents. They provide not only experience unmatched by most, but the way they communicate their experiences is oftentimes poetic, artful and truly and inspiration.

Though I remember little of my childhood, in my teens I was raised by the likes of Dostoyevsky, Ralph Ellison and Tolstoy. These men taught me everything about all aspects of life through stories, poetry and social commentary. I’m forever grateful to these men.

But my teachings have not solely been limited to men. For women have played a major role in my development philosophically and poetically. With the likes of Beauvoir, Rand and Angelou, I’ve come to see life through a different perspective; these women have replaced my own mother, welcoming me with open arms intellectually. I am grateful to them as well for the impressions they’ve made upon me.

I shall not forget their lessons. I can only wish to pay you homage one day through the ways you have reached me: through poetry and literature.

Sept.

Love is a sickness in which I currently suffer from; it’s symptoms include feeling ‘on top of the world’ and overwhelming joy. It also erases one’s creativity, I have found, as I have not written anything of substance in about a year.

I confess: when I said that love is a sickness, I lied. Love is a beautiful thing; love for humankind, brother or sister, oneself or life, are all beautiful things. Unfortunately, the love of all things beautiful distracts one from seeing all things ugly – a thing I once captured quite vividly in my writing. With this new found ‘love for all things beautiful’ I have been unable capture the ugly side of life as I was once able to. And yes, you may be asking yourself if I am offering a reason against love – the lack of ability to capture the ugly side of life. And to this I give you an enthusiastic yes! It’s true.

“Then how do you cure yourself of this ‘love for all things beautiful?’” you ask me.

“Through heartbreak,” I reply. “Heartbreak is the cure for love.”

Then you will commence to call me insane and bitter as I’m seemingly willing to give up such a great feeling, that of being in love, for a life of heartbreak and feeling of loneliness. You will then question my mental stability and accuse me of all things vile in the world. After doing so, unconvincing me of my vileness or mental stability, you will ask me why I would choose a life of heartbreak over one of love.

“All in the name of creativity,” I smirk. “In the name of creativity!”

Six.

Understanding the human mind is no easy task. One can invent theories to explain this or that action or run experiments upon large groups of people to support this or that theory. But in the end, the human mind as a whole stands as an enigma. Yet these psychologist maintain there is a blueprint to human behavior. We do this and that because of this and this because of that. If only human behavior were so predictable!

I just felt a surge of anger when I wrote that last paragraph. I ask: do you know why, psychologist?

‘Perhaps,’ you reply, biting your pencil, deep in thought. ‘Perhaps you are bothered by something you said. Or, you suffer from…’ Which then you then begin to say the name of a mental disorder you believe me to have and it’s history and possible treatments. And before I know it, I’m leaving your office with prescriptions and invitations to group sessions sharing the same disorder you made up for me minutes ago. Oh psychologist, is there anything you cannot predict?

‘No,’ you reply firmly.