Disease: The Human Plague

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Editorial and Opinion  |  House: Booksie Classic
An account of the idiosyncrasies and opulence of human existence in general and how they eventually led to our demise.

Submitted: September 20, 2007

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Submitted: September 20, 2007



Disease: The Human Plague
Tyler Breen
The (disease) Reason, or Lack Thereof

Human life, life in general, was unintentional.  The circumstances under which it could happen were so astronomically small that it probably shouldn't have happened to begin with.  No matter how  abysmally bleak, it's true.  Yet with every progressive impediment we mistook for advancement, humans pushed themselves and every other species to the edge of the non-existence we deserved in the first place.  The non-existence we eventually received.  Essentially humans fit their own definition of a parasite: a plant or animal that lives on or in another, generally larger, organism in a way that is of detriment or no advantage to the host.
Complying with their parasitic inclinations, humans created every self-indulgence possible, while disregarding others, other species, and ultimately the source of their own indulgences.  I do not claim to be an exception to this unfortunate appendage to "we the people"; there are none.  The reason is simply as a result that reason itself is inevitably self-indulgent.  Some part of the human psyche doesn't allow for one to make a decision that will consciously make them feel emotionally inferior to their current state, nor egocentrically shattered.  
The ego, as an idea, supersedes our insignificance in that we as a people are incredible self-absorbed, despite the fact that our existence in general is disgustingly simplistic.  Makeup, designer clothing, fads, and fashions are all testaments to this ideology.  It is an idea based upon our monochromatic outlook on life.  The issue is exacerbated by the notion that empathy would be a much more useful emotion in terms of giving a concrete meaning, albeit a falsified as a result of the insignificance of its achievement.  Those who stray from their own corpulent origins to bring their fallacious beginnings to those who did not have such privilege find a (and I question the validity of their proclamations) fulfillment in doing so.It's just a chemical imbalance in the brain tipped to one's favor.  This does not mean that emotion is totally theoretical, they are very real; however, I view them not as "feelings" but as the consequent outcome of chemical reactions (ergo more emotionally unstable people have more sporadic reactions) in the brain.  All encompassing, the final outcome was just yet another chemical reaction that followed  the emergence of life from a primordial soup. Short lived as it was, in the course of our species'  lifetime, we caused the destruction of it's only known (un)civilization: most catastrophic genocide to an untainted body imaginable.

The Diagnosis and (possible) Solution

As I stated earlier there are no exceptions to the parasitic nature of human existence; however,  I find an eccentric deviation from the norm of parasitic opulence necessary, so I try to fill the role explicitly.  In doing so, I found a universal sadistic irony that escape was rendered  a non-obtainable illusion; perhaps just a hypothesized convenience for hope.  Nevertheless, as futile as it may have been, there was a relentless need for me to get out, away, as far as I could possibly get from the concentrated areas of infestation.  The issue now was that there were so few places left unadulterated that no realm of the world was completely independent of human influence.
Although I had come to terms with my own realizations pertaining to the worst plague that the world has ever known, (the knowledge of itself ironic in that only the disease can recognize itself as such)  I set out with relative confidence of finding whatever tingling aura had lured me from whatever random fog I had been in.  Confident.  Yes.  Again, another one of the minds illusions, though unique in that it literally eludes one to believe their capabilities higher they really are.  It's easy to be confident when , in actuality, you're just ignorant to what you don't know beyond any point of rectification.
Figuring that all unnecessary material possessions would impede my progress, I digressed even from my own idiosyncratic notions and rid myself of them.  Keeping with me only the bare essentials for my conquest.  As a conquistador of minimalism,  I set out on to satiate my need for digression.  Originally, my plan was to take notes on my observations as I went along, but sometime along the way I stopped.  The autobiography of my minds altercations was far more tangible than reality, a non-communicable enigma that has thus far evaded the quip of a quill, though not other‘s minds.

I started out with a loose plan.  It had to be loose.  With too many constrictions no amount of data would be pertinent to my cause, it would be too scripted, too formed to fit into what I wished it to form.  This tactic was useful for journalism, when the writer wishes to force an opinion upon you by burning it into your eyes with ink and formidable impressions; however, I was going for the truth.  The general guidelines for my plan were incredibly simplistic, yet perfectly situated to any circumstantial temperament that may arise:  Specific point and time? Inconceivable.  Oh well, I'll await orders so I can disobey them.
As I started out, I was suffocating from the disease that I was a part of, but I was setting out to find out about the disease, so there might be a way to relieve the symptoms.  Getting out is easy, getting out fast enough is entirely different.  Night blanketed the California desert.  As I stood, alone, I saw the sunlight strike the moon and ripple across the sky, as a wave; how, in fact, light truly behaves, an accentuated view of the actual, although rarely perceived,  behavior of light.  If you look hard enough, you'll see that the sky pulses in a rhythmic pattern, harmonious with the twinkling of stars and the wind in the trees.  Throughout history people needed the sky.  Without it, the expanses of the universe would be visible at all times and no astrological mystery would be left for the night.  The silhouetted black-drop of twilight would have not but a skeleton of its former je ne sais quoi.
In truth peopled needed everything they had and more.  They needed addictions.  They need it just as they need love to break and mend and mesh.  Just as they need perplexities, imperfections, and a god to fear or refuse.  People are incredibly needy.  They need things to hate, to cherish, to run from, to run to, and phenomena to study forwards and backwards because often the reverse is more eloquent than the intended.  A regrettable contradiction between my observations and the fictitious human inspiration, though pessimistic, showed that humans, in general, were too short minded to finish studying a subject before moving on to the next, the greatest example being our own minds.  I smiled grimly.  The unnoticed natural phenomena darkly contrasted with the minute accomplishments of our own destructive, planned, genocide of existence.
With the sun set and fatigue beginning to take hold, I slowed down and veered off into a small dirt trail to get away from the streets. That was the first night I ever slept outside.  I'd been camping, but even then you are surrounded by a tent (or as many decide not to leave the superfluous luxuries of home behind, an RV).  Being completely out in the open desert was at once revitalizing and unnerving.  In absence of a comfortable surrounding, a mixture of dark claustrophobia and agoraphobia with no tangible surroundings other than the ground entangled into a feeling of absolute vulnerability. 

Conveying the truth is hard; so hard, in fact, that no one can ever truly do so without bias opinion upon what the truth is.  That's my truth about the truth and, in my experience, it is true enough for me.  As I became increasingly astute to the human ailment my truth became relevant to my own distinctive questions.  My minds depletion, caught in a rapid growth of egocentrism, led me to an internal stupor, unperceivable by anyone outside my consciousness.  Stemming from this mental stupor came writing, the only way to convey my thoughts, even to myself, coherently, and non-abrasively.
It's a cut-throat lifestyle that taught me, if nothing else, that you can be viciously thrown out on the streets before having the slightest indication that you were headed there, and yet you never stop.  As long as the need for communication persists, it will eat away at you, incapacitating all functions other than appeasing to the demons in your head.  All the while you're trying to replicate the incentive masterpiece that placed the demons there in the first place; rewriting that masterpiece verbatim without using any of the same words.  As for truth, it's all based upon perception.  At the point when I finally realized this, I stopped taking notes.  By this time, however, I had reached a distance of five thousand miles from my initial starting point, taking my time, trying to understand the driving force behind the monumental insignificances that those I met held so dear.

Typhoid Mary and Self Destruction

A scattered fallout of inconclusive data halted my searching.  As I found, most simply followed a standardized submission to the will of stronger strands of influence.  Their following was subconscious, and therefore they found my deviation beguiling and deceptive, even ludicrous.  Every disease needs a Typhoid Mary.  Complacency is the Typhoid Mary of the human ailment.  Blind to its recognition by the disease itself, we the people can no longer adapt to its own discretional conditions.
Reveling in complacency, relishing every aspect of dormancy, the virus grew.  All who I came across were terminally afflicted, yet none sought treatment for their ailments.  No one ever has, nor will they.  As a stipulation of the disease itself, they lose the will to do so.  What vaccination I had been looking for was a futile attempt to quell a beast in a murderous rage only satiated with total extermination. 

As uttered words fell upon my ears in a muted disarray of various nuances, I realized I had drifted away from the limelight of mediocrity into a numb tranquility.  I summoned my own disgrace, a withered and tired old friend.  A black hole void of life which we fill with superficiality, morals under false pretenses, the uttermost disgust upon any deviation from our own.  Although not one soul/mind (or any other name bestowed upon the random chemical equations distinctive of each persons brain) could, would, or wished to come to terms with what I knew, saw, felt, and dealt with as the forbearer of the human conditions' solution.
Despite my immaculately loose planning  the data had proven inconclusive other than to the fact that the plague had all too explicably castrated itself; rendering a narcissistic entity as the waste of former intentions.  This led me to bring myself into exile; finding the monochromatic, self-righteous, crucifix of such narcissism to much to bear.  In nature I could relate to the earth, harmoniously coexisting without disrupting its balance.  Sleeping outside no longer had the phobic effects it once did, but was instead comforting.  I tried to see the world as it had been before the disease had disrupted its natural flow.  The most distinct and unwavering natural occurrence was the incessant smoke rings of time and the coincidental orbit which we perceived as such.  At night, the zodiac would pass overhead silently, majestically.  If I sat upon a hill or mountain, I could sit up all night and watch as thousands of stars glided simultaneously with a circular zenith.  I felt a higher state of physical, as well as mental state of being. 

As the monotony of the time slipped by and turned into the monotony of an era, the disease had tried to treat itself with it's own form of natural resistance.  True enough, the plague had destroyed itself, crushed by its own will for dominance over (in retrospect) itself.  The disease had, until this point, been preoccupied with destroyed everything with the exception of itself. As a parasitic entity in the highest degree, it found minor inconsistencies in itself which it found to be a lucrative exploitation.  This cyclical manner of life continued until it had undermined its own foundations for living.  The confrontation could be explained with further complexities, which the disease itself produced as a means of justification; however, they were meaningless and not pertinent to their actual means and objectives.
As I seem to have been the outlying free radical, untouched by the influence of my own kind, I survived the self genocide.  To any point or purpose? Perhaps, yet it has yet to be revealed.  There is no possibility for procreation, nor would there be any point in doing so.  There is no more religion and therefore no god for me to answer to whether I believed the doctrines of religion or not.  There is no society to answer to for the ways of my life, though I wouldn't answer anyway.  There is no more culture, the differing complexities of each distinct people now indistinguishable under the anguish of time's inevitable end to what was once a possibility for excellence.  The earth rid itself of the disease, coincidentally by the disease ridding of itself.  It now has immunities against it, utter extinction for good reason.  Human life started as a miniscule statistic with little importance, and ended as the most short lived, though detrimental, accident to have disgraced its own name and known it.  Natural order has a tendency to return to an equilibrium.  It has, it will, it is.

© Copyright 2019 Tyler Breen. All rights reserved.

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