pumpkineater

There are days like today where I wake up and remember Im an alien. Its very Kafka-esque. I spend the rest of the day feeling uncomfortable and agitated, wondering where my true home is and why Im here. I sit and stare at people wondering who the other aliens are, and who the zombies are. Sometimes I can tell those who share my citizenship. Sometimes I can tell who the other aliens are because well make knowing eye contact. Sometimes I can tell who the zombies are, when I look into their eyes and nobody is at the wheel. Just a blank, vacant grey reflection. You know them too, probably. Maybe you are one. What puts me in this state of being? What am I looking for?


Im an emotional alien. Some people have been medicated their whole lives to be numb, to be stable, to be normal, to be happy. There is a drug for every emotion. Im not taking any medication, but Im not so different from those who dobecause I did it all by myself the hard way. As long as I can remember Ive had an emotional mask. It was when I was very young, I had just barely learned to stand and walk when my father hit me. Even then, amidst my shock, pain, scars, tears and humiliation, I retreated quickly. My childhood memories arent in my head, they are words on a page, pictures in a photo album, images on vhs, recounted stories of other people. I put my mask on when I need to hide, when I need to dull my emotion, to be invisible, when I need to say fuck it. It used to be a shield from my childhood, parents and trauma, but more recently, I use it as a sword because it tortures those who try to dig into the hard crust of my soul, to try to get to know and help me. Sometimes I use my mask subconsciously and that scares me. Unfortunately sometimes it masks my joy and happiness too. My mask is an instant illusion, a dark heavy curtain providing an instant shade when it gets too bright, or painful or real. It can mask my anger, my pain, my fear, my thoughts. Its both my greatest strength and weakness. These are the days when the colors are faded, food tastes bland, the sounds are muted. These are the days when the strangeness makes me self-conscious and self aware of a desperate world.

Im a cultural alien. My cultural heritage extends only so far as 1979. I dont even share my parents heritage. I grew up skimming the cliff notes to culture and society, absorbing it in without understanding it. It was as if I dangled my feet in the pool of culture never jumping in and learning to swim in it. I learned a lot, but I never knew it. There was that emotional disconnect again. I can memorize and spit out quotes and facts and references, but I cant tell you why or how. I am neither the individualistic western cowboy nor am I the eastern faceless servant to the collective. I am somewhere in between, the lines blurred, borrowing from both at my own greedy convenience and not even bothering to check when they contradict hypocritically. I am deeply religious, but I am a caustic skeptic.

I live, breathe, eat, sleep here but I am a human alien. Im visiting, this planet is not my home. My bed, my room, my domicile is not my home. Im lucky though, because despite the strangeness and unfamiliarity of this, I have someone I trust. I have someone who I can share with. I am safe there and she is my home.