Obayifo

The funny thing about being me, is that it's not very funny at all. I promise that statement isn’t just being pathetic. Being me is actually hilarious, if you look at it like I’m about to. But I haven’t arrived there just yet, and I’m still in the previous state of mind. Which is about drunk.

First thing’s first: I don’t want to be writing this. Though this isn’t always the case, in this one, it really rather is. Who enjoys doing this, really? I prefer reading. Prefer pictures. Prefer nudes or something to keep my mind off anything around me.

There’s practice in being professionally aloof. There’s a method to knowing when you’re being forcibly entertained, yet remaining entirely oblivious to the attempt; someone makes a joke and you audibly laugh, but you didn’t hear it: you weren’t there. This is every instance I’ve been part of, my entire life.

I hear commercials, but remain uninfluenced; read books, though I don’t relate to any character in particular; write, but I don’t know what I’m trying to say: i’m pleasantly adrift, floating along, one in six or so billion in a very small river.

For some reason I was taught that we’re living in an arm’s race, that you should set yourself apart, doing anything possible to get ahead and mark your spot in the timeline of fragile humanity.

I never followed. I never lead. Sometimes I painted when others were going out; other times I would be daydreaming while the rest of everyone sieved through millions of fleeting busy thoughts.

No, I’ve never stood in a crowd and felt the world was passing me by. It was just spinning, like it was supposed to. I was breathing, like I should. Feeling the air or snow or rain.

In the ideals of making your way through an arm’s race, there are mile-long situations that either pertain to you, or make you pertain to them. I think this is manipulative, but try explaining that opinion to someone dying of AIDS, hungry while the sun beats them into dust.

Darwinism, a self-titled gem of accomplishment for someone ahead of the race, dictates that the person dying of AIDS was chosen to die; their only special commitment to the betterment of our species.

Imagine that.

You’re dying of AIDS, somewhere that Sarah Mclaughlin is representing on a commercial in a country you’ve never seen. Telling them to feed you, to give you food, shelter, clothes. Asking them to keep you alive.

And then one day, you’re dead.

That’s it.

That was your donation.

Your family, if you have any, mourns you. But the stronger of your blood survives.

You didn’t lose the race, you just ran until you didn’t run anymore. That’s Darwinism. One of many opinions defined by other definitions, and studied by people defining themselves.

I picture us like a garden, Eden, actually. Eden is not a real place, as matter of opinion, Eden is humanity. It was never meant to be found, demolished, constructed. We are Eden, and each of us belong to different species of ocular garnish.

Even in our manner of speech, we refer to our families as “trees”, but where or why this explanation came about is lost. Could it be that we inherently understand that we're the garden?

“The apple never falls from the tree.”

“He’s as sturdy as oak.”

“I heard it from the grape vine.”

Our biological survival is dependant on sunshine, nutrients such as vitamins, and water. Much like a budding flower, we age via photosynthesis. Even our genetic passage was defined by Mendel, who bred flowers. You could say that I love humanity, but the truth is better explained by stating that I admire our definitions.

Those who would oppose humanity are ignorant. I have endless time to educate those people who make those claims, but typically they aren’t ready to listen. Getting anyone to listen to someone like me takes a little bit of time. Seven or eight years, according to my friendships.

I call my opposers ignorant because they can’t see, or choose not to. They can’t understand, and for that I don’t really fault them. I know this is every person’s statement when they feel like they’re better than everyone else. Just give me a minute. They’re typically very young in age and still believe in the arm’s race; still believe that hating humanity will set them apart and raise them intellectually above their peers. It’s one of many opinions they can choose to go against the grain, so they never have to admit they were drinking from the same trough.

As they get older, they lose interest in being too different. They start to slowly, agonizingly understand that much like a defiant wolf pup, their differences will leave them without a pack; without a structure and without the internal contentment knowing their spawn will have a network once they’ve died.

They are at the stage of psychological development where narcissism is running rampant and they live for several years without ever acknowledging the fact their parents have created a network for them, whom they call “family” and “friends”. None of which would have been possible if said parents had never progressed beyond the ignorant phase of young adulthood.

More often than not, I hear “If humanity was is so great, why do we kill each other? Why is there murder and rape? Why do we exploit each other for profit and why do our governments lie to us?”

Depending on what your faith is, if you have one, we kill each other because we are sinners. I don’t believe this. I believe “sin” is a definition, like the rest of us, and is used dominantly to play on our sense of guilt. It’s an amazing social construct, so powerful it moves nations to commit acts of both atrocity and wonder. It’s counterpart, a “fulfillment of duty” essence, is “faith” and much like several words I can choose, it has several metaphorical and literal meanings. The answer for why we kill is starkly simple: there is no room for us all. Cosmologically, Earth is a small planet. In more depth, the Garden must grow, the seasons must come, and some of us must die.

We are driven by the arm’s race and what it gives us: opinions, likes, dislikes, tastes, sensation, emotions; both conflicting and agreeing on separate levels. And to my enjoyment, all of those don’t always handle well with other members of the Garden. This spawns conflict, which spawns interior passion, which begets resolve, and eventually marks history; whether the history is personal or global. Each is equally important.

You have to understand that this is how it is, should be, and continue.

Lies, murder and rape fall from the same passage. It’s within us. Grows, kills, destroys, builds us. I’m in this garden. You’re in the garden too. How is it you can’t understand me? The funny thing about being me is that it isn't funny at all...

Why?

Intro

As the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined.

Prov. A grown person will act the way he or she was taught to act as a child

Tree is known by its fruit.

Prov. People judge your character by what you do.

The apple never falls far from the tree.

Prov. Family characteristics are usually inherited.

Wake up, she heard. Wake up, listen: Wake up, grow. When you get above the canopy, say hi to the sun. Say hi to the light. Let it take you: absorb it.

My mother accepted it. The voice she heard told her to go as fast as possible and don’t stop. It said, “keep climbing, reach further, get higher away from the ground”--never keep your feet on the ground.

At a Christmas party in 1989, my mother reached the clouds. She started to glow. Her climbing started to get labored; her lower back cramped, her legs shook and so she stopped on a branch: my grandfathers. But this particular branch has aged. Years of weather and the seasons of bearing fruit of it’s own caused it to bow. The pressure of my mother and the bulge of her belly put weight on the remainder of the tree. But a tree is known by it’s fruit, and our fruit is strong. Our fruit grows. Our fruit grows and endures. His branch lifted her weight higher, until it was taught enough to strum, so very tought, it snapped.

My mother came falling down, catching herself at the last possible moment, but the damage was done.

Her brown hair she meant to give to me grew blood red in the womb, seeping in from bruising around her belly. The eyes she meant to be mine with which to see the world as she had seen it, instead became green. Two bright green jades, treasures to anyone who looked over my mother’s arm to see my face, pregnant with envy I couldn't feel yet. My birth meant her trial had arrived.