Zombies

There’s this restlessness, there’s this void. I can see myself from above, I can, from outside, like my soul decided to get out of the physical cage I call body. I can hear myself speaking, I can feel my hands grabbing things. The palms of my hand itch, my feet have to move up and down, up and down, I have to blast something in at least one ear in order to get some peace of mind, songs in loop, and I have to hide inside clothes too many sizes bigger. It’s easy to hide earphones inside big jumpers, no one ever notices.

I find it hard to breathe in everytime, I am aware of every mechanical inspiration. As I strive for understanding, I struggle to find the right words. Everywhere I look I only ever see zombies. Even the outcasts are. They all fit each other, their round concave edges perfectly match the others’ round convex ones. Mine are all butchered, splintered. They will never fit anywhere, I stopped trying.

I used to believe that if I were patient enough and managed to get close enough to anyone, everyone had a fascinating inner dialogue that could resemble an ancient philosopher. Finding out the norm in our species is having no inner monologue and that I have no idea how to talk to such people has been a devastating blow. I still double over in pain, and spit blood sometimes, my stomach is still bruised from it.

You give someone time and care, and like a plant, you expect beautiful leaves in return, but you just get a void in front of you. Someone without a real conscience. Fully functional in society, but lacking substance. Your nemesis. The more you water them and care for them, these plants just rot. Because they can tell. They know you aren’t one of them.

They think, for they exist, they have to, right? But they’re different. I think they don’t have a soul. Is it the price to pay to be blissful? No. I can also be blissful. But they’re the foundation of society: they keep old innovations, they do what they’re told, they’re the bulk of the population. And they’re all around me. There are things I can never say out loud, things that can never be discussed or explored, not with them. But everyone’s just like them.

That family who was cooking soup in a small pot and it would always spill, it comes to mind. The little girl who asked why to her mother, who said it’s always been like that and was told to ask her grandmother and then her great grandmother and her great great grandmother, until she was told the big pot was dirty and they just got used to that instead. Generation after generation of lack of curiosity, innovation, life behind the eyes. Atrophied, gone. Like the appendix, like wisdom teeth. Couldn’t I do that, too? Why not?

I can feel myself slowly drifting further away, deep into questioning social norms and bending them more and more. I push myself a little further on the edge and I don’t think it even matters anymore. It’s all blurry and muffled enough for me to do anything. Anything at all. It’s reassuring, comforting to know that there is always an easy way out, even encouraging. Just bending the most ancient of instincts a little more to take the shortcut to eternity.

I told myself I could live alone, on my own. I told myself I would be able to, because what else could I say to that pale face staring back in the mirror? How do I find others like her? How can I be sure she is safe? What if I am too much and they get away? What was all the effort for then?

It’s easy to single yourself out as superior, isn’t it? It flatters your ego, and it feels good. But what if you’re just a mutant with a broken brain? A mutant who survived thanks to some genius medical invention, but no one knows how to integrate into society yet? I can still see myself from above. My voice feels foreign as it answers those around me. I’m so lightheaded. This virus is taking up all my mental space, consuming all my energy like a parasite.

Do they see? They must notice, for sure, but how? What gives it away? What’s so different about me that they see it? Can they smell it on me? What is the conclusion? What was this for? Can I just put a band-aid on it if I complain enough to a psychiatrist? Will they just lock me up? They’re just like the rest of them, too. Maybe this is why some people talk to themselves and answer back. I will find some of them and ask them if it ever gets any better, any less lonely, any less of a torturously lonely existence.

Maybe one day I will look back and it won’t hurt anymore, maybe one day, somehow. Maybe I can become a zombie, somehow. Maybe I can even find someone who isn’t a zombie before becoming one myself, somehow. Or maybe I can just stop caring, somehow. Is there a chance?