unpro renoun

i'm not a person - hardly a place. i'm only a one-shot, once-through thing.

i'm only a purpose; a function, a circus. a mirror through which all creation is seen.

and there's glory in that, in being an object. there's security in remaining encapsulated and dry.

but humans are aliens to me, you see. humans are people with places and things that don't own me, don't know me, don't know how to show me.

i'm just an object. stationary object. paperweight rocket, locked up out of pocket. and as the feint globe on a desktop isturns...

this paper world we're living in that folds us all into bumps and bruises
- but i can't be hurt, because i'm an object. what once was us is now them, not we.

i can't be bruised because bruises heal, and purple complexity over patellae and heels; because if i were bruising i'd mean to gone cruising and change myself lifethrough, ever put up a fight too much rust until bust until dawn breaking dusk and i'm only a thing, i don't change, i can't change.

and what i know, my objective memory:

i know everything, but nothing that actually matters, and i never will, because i've got no will.
this is why i look at human beings like they're aliens: i will never be one of them.

i've got no will. i've got now ill. i've got what it's not that can't even fall ill.

when something objective tries subjective change, it hurts all the others around, to watch rearrange; to struggle and strafe about pretermination and outcomes and distance from fin'destination.

peace. like zen. like buddha. like peace. like stone in a river, and the river runs through it, and the stone sits ever-smoothing, cares not if it's moving, knows not if it's picked up and cast and set down.

no perspective. no experience. nor coherent emotional needs. i'm just an object. doesn't sobject. there is no concept of should have done could have been when you're basically and completely, full-repletely unchanging.

if i could only accept this, this petulant refrain, this litany of hopelessness (helplessness) remain. it's not enough to be it, quaint genus, a pronoun in reference that teases the radical rebus of alternation to shade in a human form that dances with the language such humans have always used.

that's not it. i'm not it. i'm nothing and no one, but i have to be something, so i'm something, an odd thing, a wrong thing - definitely not a god thing.

i'm just not a person, i scream and i shout, because an object is stubborn with unchanging stripespots, ignorant of all this esteem undue hurled.