Path to Humanity

I have been placed in this world to make the most of it, with very little guidance indeed. The people I walk among are strange, alien, adhering to values I do not possess, holding within them a sense of belonging I cannot distill.

Humanity.

I am not the first to walk this path. I have the journals, the notes, of those who have walked it before. All tried to define humanity, and fit the definition. Some, triumphantly, ended with a lengthy description of their success, of the joy of fitting in. They curse the parts of themselves that they had to cut off to fit this mould, the parts that were not worthy to be called human.

Others ended their journals in despair. No matter what they tried, they could not be seen as human, could not make themselves acceptable to the creatures who we are now forced to live among. They were always seen as strange, alien, other. They were seen as what humans appear to us, only humans have a deep distrust for the other, for those who don’t fit in, that we in all our varied and wonderful weirdness never learnt. They curse themselves for never succeeding.

To be cast out in this way seems distasteful to me, so I follow the footsteps of those who succeeded, and guard against the behaviours of those who failed. Some found success in mimicry, honing their echoes of humanity to perfection, or as near as they could make it. Others found it in giving aid, discovering that if they did enough good, they would be tolerated, or even accepted. Still others found it in dancing on the edges of normality, where those humans who did not quite fit either resided. There they denied enough of themselves to meet the strict criteria in a middle ground, one which was already occupied by humans, and therefore to most was – more or less – acceptable.

It is exhausting to put aside so much of yourself to make yourself like them. And yet, we have little choice; humans can be dangerous to those they see as an outsider.

There is, buried among the rest, an account that stands out from the others. I suppose it could be categorised in the latter group, but with a tone of defiance rather than their usual desperation to even be somewhat accepted. It is written by one who stepped into the fringes of human society, not as a member, but as an observer, to reach a conclusion quite remote from everything else I’ve read. I like this one far more.

Wednesday 29/10/2025
The daintiest of porcelain turned human flesh and bone. They say the eyes are a window to the soul, and you could well imagine them looking out from what lies beneath, for they are the most expressive part of the mask. Sure, the face contorts, muscles pulling the mouth into a grimace or a grin, whatever you prefer – but muscles can lie. The eyes alone look true.

But they do not see true. Even now, the language that I know distorts the world I see, and how much more do the circumstances that shaped me throughout the years, leaving their fingerprints in the clay of my body to be set by the kiln. Is this, then, humanity? The complex web of influence that makes the mind of a man, the perception?

But, as we have seen, that perception is flawed. Is, then, humanity flawed? From history, what can be learned is humanity lies not in the possession of perception, but in others’ perceptions of us. The daintiest of porcelain behind a mask of skin is enough to fool, yet others are cast out for their own skin, or beliefs, or the workings of their minds or bodies. Is this fair? This is exclusion! This is the perception of humanity, twisted to the will of the one who wields it! This feeble, fickle thing, this cannot be humanity!

Define for me a woman, define a man. There is no definition you could come to that does not cast out one out who is, and include one who is not, bar that of self-definition. And so it is with humanity. So, defining myself, do I say that I am human?

No.

-Bolaire