Human?

The rhythm was perfect. Each tap, each flourish, synchronized and in time. It was an odd tempo, wasn't it. Something strange about it, like it wasn't quite what your mind wanted to hear. Just a tad faster than it should have been, yet not quite fast enough to make sense. While the speed was off-putting, everything else remained consistent and beautiful. Perhaps this is what it means to be human.

To take something that innately annoys you, and to turn it into something elegant. To turn pain into art. What better way to conquer it, than to ridicule it for entertainment? Is that it? What is means, to be human?

Another room. Gears, in this room. It was the back of a large clock. I'm not quite sure what they want from me, but, I'm pretty certain it involves observing. So, I observe. Gears spin together, at different speeds, and--

CLUNK

For every three spins of the smallest gear, the next largest spun nearly once. Rather than finishing a full rotation, the last ridge in the gear is skipped over. This creates a horrid sound and the gear simply pauses for a beat before--

CLUNK

Alright, I get it! Perhaps this is what it means to be human.

To create something so close yet so far from perfect, and even more so to just... Settle. Settle for the mildly imperfect and overlook it. Is that what it is, then? Is that the human nature?

The gears evade me as another room comes into view. Here, people play cards. Unlike the ballet, a construction of human imagination, and the clock, a construction of human ingenuity--this was simple, relaxed. What better way to observe human nature than to catch them with their guard down? Not putting on a show, not doing something important for a purpose, just... Playing cards.

Each person receives two cards that glide smoothly across the fuzzy green surface, and they flip or push or throw these large coin-like discs into the center. The neat stacks by each player transforms over that short distance to the middle, becoming a non cohesive mess. Some more cards are placed, and one person pushes the rest of their disks into the center. Some follow suit, while a few throw their cards to the person who was giving the cards to them in the beginning.

So, this is it. To be human is not just to orchestrate masterpieces to mock the painful, nor is it just to settle for something imperfect if it works; It is also to relax the brain, to engage in leisure and connect with others.

There was a small commotion, and that man (who I have named the Giver, for he gives cards and then gives the center disks to whoever he chooses) pushes the heaping mess of circles towards one man. Another, the second to have pushed every disk into the center of the table, retrieves a special tool.

With this tool, he helps the lucky man relax his brain further by dispersing it across the room--and then he relaxes himself too.

The room shifts away, but I still see it. No longer in front of me, but I can... I can create it. I can create, and look around, and watch it happen all over again. Is this what it means to be human? To deem yourself so righteous that you decide when people are done playing? To force your own agenda? Perhaps it is. Now, a box sits in front of me.

On this box lies a rectangular plane of colors, that come together to form... things. A rabbit, taller than men, who seemed to be capable of anything he needed to be. A sponge, somehow still porous while submerged, that takes the form of a man and... Why?

Is this what it means to be human? To indulge one's self into things so strange that you cannot make sense of them? To view monstrosities for pleasure? The box goes dark for a split second, and a new display appears.

There are people this time--real people, not the things from before. There is one man at a podium, who continues to speak his feelings. Is that it? To express; Yes, that must be it! To be human is to express feelings, all of them! Is that what it means, to be human?

I see death. I know now what death is. These people lose their ability to think, to express, to be human. The beautiful creativity and ingenuity that allowed them to build crude, self propelled boxes to ride in also allowed them to create... Fire. Fire so dense, so unsustainable, that it flashed only for a second. From the ends of tools. I see now that relaxing fully is bad. To fully relax is to never allow yourself to un-relax.

I see labor. Hundreds of people are here, some cut trees while others get in big self-propelled boxes that they use to bring the cut trees to a place where they are cut more. More, and more. From trees, come desks; beds, doors, chairs; all of it. I cannot believe what I observe. A hundred people, working in unity, to create something so beautiful. Humans are not powerful, but they are united. So that, is what it means. To be human is to be together. So those with the tools are not human, right? But, these hundreds use tools. They use them on trees, which are alive. What separates humans and trees?

I see now, two places. One is a plane of sand, where the air ripples and few green things are seen. The other, a plane of frost and snow, where no green is seen. The air here is thick. Yet both places have humans in common. To be human, perhaps, is to adapt. To grow, to learn. Then, am I human?

I see one man running for hundreds of miles. I see another who sits on a couch they did not build. I see one man scribbling furiously, solving problems and thinking nonstop. I see another poisoning themselves and hitting their heads on things.

What is it to be human? Is it the inconsistency, or rather the individual consistency? Perhaps to be human is to be different, and to be so far different that you are nothing but that which makes you different.

I see a man who treats another man well. He turns, then, and swings a long, spindly thing at another's back. The only difference between these two men is one wears cloth over their upper body, and the other does not. He who does not is bent over, getting his back painted red with that long spindly thing while simultaneously grabbing bits of fluff from plants.

Is that to be human? To multitask, engaging in art and in tasks? Perhaps because humans have come so far, they are able to afford the liberties to do so.

So what makes a human different from anything else is their ability to adapt, to grow, to learn. To create, to inflict violence, to hate. To feel, to express. To harness the forces of nature so that they may better kill each other and themselves. To search, to yearn, to face constant struggle that comes not externally, but internally. Perhaps to be human is to be stupid, to let your brain take itself over and to lose dignity. To be just smart enough to progress and enable yourself, and just stupid enough to not know what to do with it. To just do with it, anything you can. Like the tempo, just enough to be dangerous and not enough to be safe.

What is a human? And why are they so proud? I no longer wish to be human. I know now that humans are beautiful and ugly creatures. I want to see more, but I do not wish to be.

Even with all I have seen, I do not understand what it is to be human.