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Humans are inherently good and the world is inherently beautiful.

VaporwaveHistorian

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Humans are inherently good and the world is inherently beautiful.

Look, I give good speeches. I can barely talk in class for more than a minute because my face and hands start twitching. But when shit goes down and people utter how hopeless they are, they know to call me. They know to push me up and I give a speech to offer peace.

Because I know the world.

You know that I'm a historian and an archaeologist –in the making, that is. But I already employed many things they taught me. I know the world as much as I can, and it's not something "yeah this civilization lived here" kind of information that I hold. It's the "the world is in harmony" sort of information the heart can understand.

The world has such harmony. The way we appeared, gained consciousness, and decided to keep going is something precious. Every step you take is the result of millions of years of development. The 3.5 million years old pre-homo sapiens Lucy would be proud of you for coming this far. Your neanderthal ancestors, if any, would be very proud to see you like this. The cave people who drew on the walls would adore seeing your sketches on paper, even those that you randomly doodled while talking on the phone. Sumerians would adore the way you type on the computer, fingers moving swiftly to write words of communication. Ancient merchants would ask you to teach them online shopping and you could unbox the shipments together. They would be amazed at how far you've come.

And your ancestors who stood in the moonlight and wondered if they'd make it... they all made it. They have you. They are proud of you. This world has its infinite harmony: oxygen is produced by the trees and we exchange it with CO2. We take another breath to feel the wind embracing our faces. The sunsets are always different and beautiful like ever-moving paintings of the horizon. How beautiful is the world, just for us to see and experience! How beautiful is the infinite progress of humanity to this point that YOU, just YOU appeared the way you are, and it couldn't have been another way.

YOU are perfect the way you are because history progressed that way to make you who you are.

This world is inherently beautiful and harmonious.

Some of you may remember the time I had that heart illness. I was fucking TERRIFIED because I was alone and it was happening again and I felt like if I would die in the dorm, it would take three days for someone to find my body. And it felt so lonely as I waited for the sunrise or took walks around the campus just to make sure that I was still breathing.

And I wrote here about that. And you folks just wrote such beautiful messages to me that I felt like you were holding my hand. It felt alright. It didn't feel lonely anymore. I reread your messages over and over through the day and nights I felt weak, I HAD to make it for you guys. So I did.

And humans are inherently good because I know you guys. Because you know me. Because we care. We don't know each other personally, you just know that I'm that crazy schizo who once wrote a manual on eating cat food and shit like that, and you took your time to offer me kindness because I was sick and afraid. Humans are inherently good because you are good and I find it precious.
 
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Regal

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Appreciate the positivity out in the world and in Agora.

I can barely talk in class for more than a minute because my face and hands start twitching.

You should definitely work on that! Seems like you would enjoy public speaking once you're over the anxiety. I'm in a similar boat and have a goal next year to work on public speaking.
 

anagram.nagaram

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If he's a good hitter why doesn't he hit good?

But yeah, A lot of people are really great and lord-willing we've come a long way. Life is a wonderful journey.
 
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Amazing speech friend. Honestly, we could use more optimism in the world. Despite all of the bad things we've seen at the end of the day we are still just human beings and as you said OP, we are all inherently good.


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBbRJoHTJAM


And yes, the world is a beautiful place filled with wonders and mystery that we're still discovering to this day! That's why Terranigma and really the fan named "Gaia Trilogy" is favorite game of all time. Since it is about the Earth rather than the stories of the games themselves.


View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAyNuQDNSAU
 
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I'm not sure what to say about it. I feel oddly sick reading this. Your post sits both well and very not well with me.

I'll DM you later so we can talk about it.
 
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Sketch Relics

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I'm not sure what to say about it. I feel oddly sick reading this. Your post sits both well and very not well with me.

I'll DM you later so we can talk about it.
I mean, if you really want to take his ideal to the extreme, humans are technically the only hope the planet has, due to the sun progressing through it's natural life cycle in roughly a billion years it will end up destroying the Earth on it's own. Considering that it took about 13 billion for a single intelligent species to show up, it is very unlikely that another will follow in time. As of such all life on Earth is inherently doomed unless we find a way to take everything off of it before hand.
 
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VaporwaveHistorian

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I love everyone's comments so much. Thank you so so much. And @Aral of Xiaohe , of course! You can DM me anytime!

I had forgotten that I made this thread. Seeing my notifications get filled with this, I read my original post and damn, man. I really needed that:)



Since I made that post in June; I've since hit the lowest point, the high-lowest point (manic episode), had times of intense panic attacks with no reason, moved back home for summer, moved out again for college. Things change all the time. You find yourself in a different time, different place, looking at the same sky and wondering how you made it. We always make it.

And I don't know if I ever told this story. I probably did. Sometimes I get spacey, dazed, disoriented, whatever; then I find myself telling this story over and over. I think it's been quite some time since I last spoke about it though.

It's been 1 year and 11 months since I got visibly crippled. 2021, November. Before that, I had chronic pain and some other health issues but they weren't visible. Sure I held my diseased arm at my back but when I needed it, I could make it work somewhat. Then it went to my shoulder. Spine. Legs. Sort of like a horror story. I was still fully living back home so I had to beg my parents to take me to a bunch of doctors and nothing came out. No one would believe it. I let it go.

Moving out for college, I believed that fresh air and a less polluted environment would solve it. Maybe it had been the last-year-of-high-school stress, right? For the first time in my life, I moved out. It was a different province. Far from the city center even. On the mountains, in a basement room with four people. But I was studying what I adored, I was having the best time of my life, I was making it work.

Slowly, I started dropping things. Couldn't wash the dishes sometimes, couldn't squeeze the sponge! Couldn't get up. And when I did manage to get to classes, I took twice the time because my legs felt weird. One morning I woke up before sunrise and climbed a little knoll we had on campus. I watched the sun there, so warm on my face. So warm on my legs. That was the last time I freely walked like that.

I found myself increasingly unable to walk. Taking steps, I'd stumble. Fall. Knees would buckle for no reason. Feet wouldn't step right. I couldn't exit the building for around a week. I ordered an umbrella and picked it up from the cargo center with steady steps. I used that for a week. Then I ordered a forearm crutch because the umbrella wasn't enough. I showed up to all my classes after that and my professors could only assume that I had an accident. It was awkward to explain. Even I didn't know what was going on.

Everything had gotten worse in a few weeks. Thought I was dying, really. Had a pal who had to comfort me that my family wouldn't be too miserable if I died, that they'd respect my memory and keep on living. Same pal talked to me on the phone for hours until I fell asleep because I was too afraid of death. I'd tell my parents on the phone, "I can't walk," and they wouldn't believe me. Who would? I never told them about my forearm crutch because I knew I'd be scolded. I hid it when they finally came.

When they picked me up for the holidays, they were shocked. It came with a lot of denial on their side. I'd walk with an umbrella and they'd force me to leave it at home, completely physically depending on holding onto their arms for support. I was told horrible things. I was watched by the family like an animal in a zoo, them expecting when I'd finally fall. Pretty sure they didn't want to show me to their friends or guests. The black sheep experience. They sort of stopped loving me until they could accept the fact that their kid is a cripple.

Medical tests didn't help. No cause. Fibromyalgia, they said. I've had it for years and it only decided to get worse in the past two weeks? No tumor, no lesions in MRI, we can't do anything. You aren't dying. And it was a relief to be staying alive, but the questions would remain. They still do. I just stopped ruminating. My cane is my third leg, third arm, whatever. It's another limb. It's me. It's my wife. It's my compatriot. I'm alive. I'm okay with it.

Before I was told that I wasn't dying, I think it was a few weeks till Christmas (and my 18th birthday close to it), I just remember praying to see the Christmas lights. I love them, you know? They are very pretty. And that Christmas, they decorated the campus with magnificent lights hanging down from the entrance gate to the square. You should have seen the view. I'd take walks at night, tap tap through the paved ground, just feeling alive.

Went to a bookstore with said pal, found an old Greek book. Almost rotten. Got it along with a Bible in Ottoman Turkish. I took the Greek book to my professor. His class was the first I went to with my umbrella. His office was the one where I cried while trying to explain how I need some mercy, just a bit of mercy and I promise I'll finish all the assignments –he got rid of all the deadlines just for me, listened to all my worries about life and health, and we still chat every once in a while on everything you can think of. I gave him the book as a Christmas gift. Throughout that year and the next, I'd bring him potted plants, little drawings and handcrafted gifts, and plenty of cheese from Cyprus we both love.

It gets better.

My family accepted the fact that I'm crippled. It was after they did some weird things such as energy-healing attempts or taking me to a prophet's tomb and feeding me blessed candy (don't ask). It didn't work, of course. My mother herself got me my cane. My father replaced its ripped tip. I noticed that they started offering me their arm if I stumbled even with a cane. They'd direct me to ramps instead of stairs. They stopped being ashamed of me. They introduced me to their friends with my passions, not my "unfortunate status". It's good to feel like a human again, you know?

Sometimes I still panic about death. Then I take a deep breath and know that I'm alive. I'm alive now, it's good enough for me. I really didn't think I'd make it this far. Never thought I'd make it to 18, you know? But it's almost my 2-year-anniversary of visible crippledness (lol) and I'm okay with it.

I used to look at people playing sports in the field and had to turn my head away like the song Paint It Black. Wished I could run. Use my legs like that painlessly. Hands. Anything. Then I learnt to take it easy. Slow. The pain still stings sometimes when I see folks so easily living like that, but it's so rare. Very rare. And I'm happy about it. I just feel happy that humans are alive and enjoying life like that.

And, hell, you even get used to the pain. It's like a toothache. Make it last a year. You don't actively think about it unless your tongue touches it rather badly. Some days it's worse. Some days you don't even notice it. I am unable to get out of the building on some days, but I do my stuff on the other days when I can. It hurts to use my hands in every motion, it never changed, even while typing. But you stop thinking about that unless it's one of the bad days. I have lighter spoons and forks. I use pens instead of pencils most of the time. It keeps going.

Sorry for rambling. It's just one of these emotional days.

I've had people ask me why I love life so much. It's some sort of desperate love, maybe. I begged God to stay alive, begged God so much to stay alive and God specifically looked out for me to keep me alive. I saw the Christmas lights. I have wrapped Christmas lights on my cane every year since. I felt so rejected by my own family and refused to see any relatives or friends for a long while. I was ashamed of myself, of how much I was unable to function, how I was unable to help my parents with the housework for a good while. But hell, you know what? I noticed people holding doors open for me on the campus. Softly stepping away to give me ease of access. For once in my life, I felt like humanity was looking out for me. I dared show my face and get together with 5 people I didn't know to take a nature walk. And I did that. It was so human to stay alive and experience life like that.

This is my story. This is how I made it. This is how I untied the noose or put the knife away or locked the pill bottle up. This is how I didn't kick the bucket. The doctor told me that I'd stay alive, so I did. I told myself that I wanted to stay alive, so I did.

A kid sees war, grows up, moves away, gets married, one day decides to talk about it all. This is how my father made it. This is how he decided not to bang his head on the walls or go missing one day. This is how he didn't kick the bucket. The soldiers decided not to kill him along the way, so he lived. He told himself that he wanted to stay alive, so he lived.

A man participates in war, regrets it, raises his children, one day decides to help with the missing persons committee effort. This is how my grandfather made it. This is how he decided not to shoot his head in his olive grove. This is how he didn't kick the bucket. Combatants, torturers, police, army, whoever –they decided not to kill him, so he lived. He told himself that he wanted to stay alive, so he lived.

I can go on. We all have a story of making it. This is something human to have. My grandfather looked at my father and saw himself in him. My father looked at me and saw himself in me. The entirety of humanity looks at you and sees itself in you. You are something grand, some sort of miracle, someone that God specifically looked out for.

I think it's precious.



Again, sorry for rambling. I'm functioning on caffeine at the moment and God knows if it all makes sense. But hey, this is Agora. I'm not writing a fucking thesis, am I? I am free. I am free to write it all. And it feels nice as fuck.



God bless us all.
2nd.jpg

3rd.jpg
 
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brentw

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Spoil Sport Doomer Mode: ENGAGED!

Humans are NOT inherently good. That is absurd.
Have you ever met a child? Children are completely immoral. They are taught to be good.

They are made good by good parents and good civilizations.
They can be made bad by bad/no parents and bad civilizations.

And if you somehow raised a human in a vacuum without any parents, society, or language, you would get a wild animal that would think nothing of killing and eating you. At best you could say they are born immoral, at worse you could call it evil.
 
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Kyou

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Not here to comment on universal optimism as a whole like I think some people are interpreting this thread as, instead I just want to say that I respect your struggles a lot and you're in my thoughts and prayers often :SataniaThumbsUp:

Spoil Sport Doomer Mode: ENGAGED!

Humans are NOT inherently good. That is absurd.
Have you ever met a child? Children are completely immoral. They are taught to be good.

They are made good by good parents and good civilizations.
They can be made bad by bad/no parents and bad civilizations.

And if you somehow raised a human in a vacuum without any parents, society, or language, you would get a wild animal that would think nothing of killing and eating you. At best you could say they are born immoral, at worse you could call it evil.
p sure that this loses to quite a few(?) of counterarguments of varying complexity, and I had a little reply to this but honestly I think it can just be summed up by saying that I have A Priori knowledge that this is not the case. I will not elaborate.
 
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GENOSAD

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I love everyone's comments so much. Thank you so so much. And @Aral of Xiaohe , of course! You can DM me anytime!

I had forgotten that I made this thread. Seeing my notifications get filled with this, I read my original post and damn, man. I really needed that:)



Since I made that post in June; I've since hit the lowest point, the high-lowest point (manic episode), had times of intense panic attacks with no reason, moved back home for summer, moved out again for college. Things change all the time. You find yourself in a different time, different place, looking at the same sky and wondering how you made it. We always make it.

And I don't know if I ever told this story. I probably did. Sometimes I get spacey, dazed, disoriented, whatever; then I find myself telling this story over and over. I think it's been quite some time since I last spoke about it though.

It's been 1 year and 11 months since I got visibly crippled. 2021, November. Before that, I had chronic pain and some other health issues but they weren't visible. Sure I held my diseased arm at my back but when I needed it, I could make it work somewhat. Then it went to my shoulder. Spine. Legs. Sort of like a horror story. I was still fully living back home so I had to beg my parents to take me to a bunch of doctors and nothing came out. No one would believe it. I let it go.

Moving out for college, I believed that fresh air and a less polluted environment would solve it. Maybe it had been the last-year-of-high-school stress, right? For the first time in my life, I moved out. It was a different province. Far from the city center even. On the mountains, in a basement room with four people. But I was studying what I adored, I was having the best time of my life, I was making it work.

Slowly, I started dropping things. Couldn't wash the dishes sometimes, couldn't squeeze the sponge! Couldn't get up. And when I did manage to get to classes, I took twice the time because my legs felt weird. One morning I woke up before sunrise and climbed a little knoll we had on campus. I watched the sun there, so warm on my face. So warm on my legs. That was the last time I freely walked like that.

I found myself increasingly unable to walk. Taking steps, I'd stumble. Fall. Knees would buckle for no reason. Feet wouldn't step right. I couldn't exit the building for around a week. I ordered an umbrella and picked it up from the cargo center with steady steps. I used that for a week. Then I ordered a forearm crutch because the umbrella wasn't enough. I showed up to all my classes after that and my professors could only assume that I had an accident. It was awkward to explain. Even I didn't know what was going on.

Everything had gotten worse in a few weeks. Thought I was dying, really. Had a pal who had to comfort me that my family wouldn't be too miserable if I died, that they'd respect my memory and keep on living. Same pal talked to me on the phone for hours until I fell asleep because I was too afraid of death. I'd tell my parents on the phone, "I can't walk," and they wouldn't believe me. Who would? I never told them about my forearm crutch because I knew I'd be scolded. I hid it when they finally came.

When they picked me up for the holidays, they were shocked. It came with a lot of denial on their side. I'd walk with an umbrella and they'd force me to leave it at home, completely physically depending on holding onto their arms for support. I was told horrible things. I was watched by the family like an animal in a zoo, them expecting when I'd finally fall. Pretty sure they didn't want to show me to their friends or guests. The black sheep experience. They sort of stopped loving me until they could accept the fact that their kid is a cripple.

Medical tests didn't help. No cause. Fibromyalgia, they said. I've had it for years and it only decided to get worse in the past two weeks? No tumor, no lesions in MRI, we can't do anything. You aren't dying. And it was a relief to be staying alive, but the questions would remain. They still do. I just stopped ruminating. My cane is my third leg, third arm, whatever. It's another limb. It's me. It's my wife. It's my compatriot. I'm alive. I'm okay with it.

Before I was told that I wasn't dying, I think it was a few weeks till Christmas (and my 18th birthday close to it), I just remember praying to see the Christmas lights. I love them, you know? They are very pretty. And that Christmas, they decorated the campus with magnificent lights hanging down from the entrance gate to the square. You should have seen the view. I'd take walks at night, tap tap through the paved ground, just feeling alive.

Went to a bookstore with said pal, found an old Greek book. Almost rotten. Got it along with a Bible in Ottoman Turkish. I took the Greek book to my professor. His class was the first I went to with my umbrella. His office was the one where I cried while trying to explain how I need some mercy, just a bit of mercy and I promise I'll finish all the assignments –he got rid of all the deadlines just for me, listened to all my worries about life and health, and we still chat every once in a while on everything you can think of. I gave him the book as a Christmas gift. Throughout that year and the next, I'd bring him potted plants, little drawings and handcrafted gifts, and plenty of cheese from Cyprus we both love.

It gets better.

My family accepted the fact that I'm crippled. It was after they did some weird things such as energy-healing attempts or taking me to a prophet's tomb and feeding me blessed candy (don't ask). It didn't work, of course. My mother herself got me my cane. My father replaced its ripped tip. I noticed that they started offering me their arm if I stumbled even with a cane. They'd direct me to ramps instead of stairs. They stopped being ashamed of me. They introduced me to their friends with my passions, not my "unfortunate status". It's good to feel like a human again, you know?

Sometimes I still panic about death. Then I take a deep breath and know that I'm alive. I'm alive now, it's good enough for me. I really didn't think I'd make it this far. Never thought I'd make it to 18, you know? But it's almost my 2-year-anniversary of visible crippledness (lol) and I'm okay with it.

I used to look at people playing sports in the field and had to turn my head away like the song Paint It Black. Wished I could run. Use my legs like that painlessly. Hands. Anything. Then I learnt to take it easy. Slow. The pain still stings sometimes when I see folks so easily living like that, but it's so rare. Very rare. And I'm happy about it. I just feel happy that humans are alive and enjoying life like that.

And, hell, you even get used to the pain. It's like a toothache. Make it last a year. You don't actively think about it unless your tongue touches it rather badly. Some days it's worse. Some days you don't even notice it. I am unable to get out of the building on some days, but I do my stuff on the other days when I can. It hurts to use my hands in every motion, it never changed, even while typing. But you stop thinking about that unless it's one of the bad days. I have lighter spoons and forks. I use pens instead of pencils most of the time. It keeps going.

Sorry for rambling. It's just one of these emotional days.

I've had people ask me why I love life so much. It's some sort of desperate love, maybe. I begged God to stay alive, begged God so much to stay alive and God specifically looked out for me to keep me alive. I saw the Christmas lights. I have wrapped Christmas lights on my cane every year since. I felt so rejected by my own family and refused to see any relatives or friends for a long while. I was ashamed of myself, of how much I was unable to function, how I was unable to help my parents with the housework for a good while. But hell, you know what? I noticed people holding doors open for me on the campus. Softly stepping away to give me ease of access. For once in my life, I felt like humanity was looking out for me. I dared show my face and get together with 5 people I didn't know to take a nature walk. And I did that. It was so human to stay alive and experience life like that.

This is my story. This is how I made it. This is how I untied the noose or put the knife away or locked the pill bottle up. This is how I didn't kick the bucket. The doctor told me that I'd stay alive, so I did. I told myself that I wanted to stay alive, so I did.

A kid sees war, grows up, moves away, gets married, one day decides to talk about it all. This is how my father made it. This is how he decided not to bang his head on the walls or go missing one day. This is how he didn't kick the bucket. The soldiers decided not to kill him along the way, so he lived. He told himself that he wanted to stay alive, so he lived.

A man participates in war, regrets it, raises his children, one day decides to help with the missing persons committee effort. This is how my grandfather made it. This is how he decided not to shoot his head in his olive grove. This is how he didn't kick the bucket. Combatants, torturers, police, army, whoever –they decided not to kill him, so he lived. He told himself that he wanted to stay alive, so he lived.

I can go on. We all have a story of making it. This is something human to have. My grandfather looked at my father and saw himself in him. My father looked at me and saw himself in me. The entirety of humanity looks at you and sees itself in you. You are something grand, some sort of miracle, someone that God specifically looked out for.

I think it's precious.



Again, sorry for rambling. I'm functioning on caffeine at the moment and God knows if it all makes sense. But hey, this is Agora. I'm not writing a fucking thesis, am I? I am free. I am free to write it all. And it feels nice as fuck.



God bless us all.
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VaporwaveHistorian

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It's been almost 6 months since I created this thread. It's a long time.

Today, I felt like humans left me to die and rot.


Things happen, things happen a lot but today it felt like this for some reason. I had a lovely day full of going to museums on Friday, I went there alone (only friend was unavailable), but I handled things well. Then I went to stay with my sister, but I didn't know her house was on top of a slope/hill. I had to climb that way, it butchered my legs up but I did. I was weirdly fine the next morning.

We went around today. Steps and slopes were making me get worse. When I got on a bus to come back to where I stay, it was full. Happens, I held onto the pole. No one bothered to offer a seat. Happens, I held on tighter. And I hoped that I'd find a seat at some point.

Forty fucking minutes. No one bothered to let me sit for forty fucking minutes. I had a heavy backpack and a bag in my hand too. I saw some people look at me as if I couldn't notice, and they looked at me from head to toe to decide in their fucking heads that it was not worthy of giving a cripple a fucking seat.

It's my life principle: I never ask for things. I know it's stupid, but I can't change this. The main reason I don't eat at the cafeteria (which meant eating very badly back then, now I got quite better) is that I don't want to ask people for help to carry the heavy trays. Been like this my entire life. And I didn't go poke people in the bus because I knew I'd probably break down crying if they looked at me weirdly. Just two days ago a security officer asked someone to offer a seat for me, and the guy looked a bit weirdly at me from head to toe before getting up. I felt like shit. I don't want to be a circus animal. Some sort of iron ingot in ancient times to be weighed: is it worth the price?

And I stood there in the bus with my mind swirling slowly. Whenever I get sick, I "hear" people from history in my head. I "witness" happenings, and my thoughts get butchered up. Inner voice can't speak. I held onto the pole for my dear life and tried to explain to the Julius Caesar in my head that no, Marcus Antonius placed that diadem on his head twice, not thrice, and it didn't mean he had to die, I'm sorry about it and he didn't have to die.

Empty seats. People filled them quickly. Acting like they were so immersed in their phones. Do they feel bad inside? Do they ever feel bad inside?

But it doesn't matter. I hope they don't feel uncomfortable. I hope they never get sick so they won't have to understand the pain. I hope they never fall into my situation. I can't wish that on my enemy. It's bad to do that.

I got off the bus and sobbed a bit on the bench at the stop. It was stupid. It was cold and I put my coat on. I had to take another bus, this time I found a seat, the DISABLED seat specially designed for CRIPPLES like me, and I felt so fucking bad because an old man was standing and I wanted to offer him my seat. I knew I'd pass out if I stood any further, so I couldn't. Healthy people were sitting everywhere and I just felt hollow. I was the only fucking person who considered giving an old man a seat, and I was the only fucking cripple on the bus.

I got back to my dorm. There's immeasurable pain only getting worse. I could barely move my limbs enough to change my clothes. I can't get out of the room any further to get water or go to the bathroom. Couldn't hold a metal spoon properly, five spoons of yogurt is enough food for tonight. It'll either get better or worse by morning. Not that it matters.

I just wish people were okay with me being alive.

Experiencing life in a less painful way, if not painless. I could have been harsh and edgy, started a fight or something, but I didn't. I don't like fighting for the right to live in less pain. It's the sort of feeling when you lie on the bed and close your eyes in sickness, letting the fever embrace you. It's not gonna help if you try to get up. Let it wash over you. I would be unable to speak words anyway. Even my inner voice was gone. There was one half-thought in my head that kept saying, "People's neglect will be your reason for death one day. You'll survive as long as you can, only to die in neglect."



Pain is too much even at the moment. A bit more sugar to get myself together, and I'll try to sleep it off. But no matter how bad the pain is, I don't consider death an option. I love life. I really love everything. I could see the distant sea during sunset. I sat by an 18-meter Roman column and roses. I was happy. I wore my favorite shirt and a flat cap. I dress well while going to museums. I even had my decorated wooden cane!

And in the museum, I saw my favorite Roman Emperor's bust. He was beautiful, so glorious with his everything. I wanted to touch him, touch his clean face. He was a disabled historian too. I saw that they wrote his name wrong on the info plate. I limped to the museum office and let them know. I'll write a formal email to get it fixed.

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Look at him. Look at how glorious he sits there. He was disabled too. He was a historian too. And I took my cap off in front of him, looking at the bust and talking to myself. I wanted to say, "I am here, Claudi. Two thousand years later, I am here."



They leave us to die quite often, don't they? Back in his day, he had to issue a law to ban masters from abandoning their sick slaves on an island instead of treating them. Masters would hope that the island's temple would cure the slaves. Claudius banned it and issued freedom for the slaves who returned alive from the island.

I think about that. We are getting abandoned not physically, but structurally on a societal level now. They're now creating laws so we can kill ourselves if we don't want to feel the abandonment, Claudi. And I'm so fucking sorry that we never took a step forward all through these past two thousand fucking years. And I'm glad you aren't here to see it. And I wish I could hold you by the arm so we could steady each other while walking slowly, slowly through Rome.



I love him. And I love humanity, too. Perhaps it's stupid. I just want to lie in a corner like a sick dog licking its wounds over and over, and I just want to avoid human interaction except for the historical voices in my head telling me that it's okay, I'll be okay, they were sick too, and I came so far already. I like the shadows and ghosts of humanity; what it has been, what it is in the delicate happenings of secret corners. I don't like heavy trays, bad pain, occupied seats, weird gazes, invasive questions, painful medical tests, family-wide gossip, paperwork, big hills, and ineffective painkillers.



I'm heartbroken today, but that was a given. Still, I'll go to that museum again at some point and look at my Emperor, I'll talk to artifacts as if talking to their makers throughout history, I'll watch the sunset again. It won't make me fear less of death due to neglect or lessen my pain, but it will make me happy. Being happy and in pain is infinitely better than being solely in pain.

I remember waking up heavily coughing one night and my mother made me tea with honey. And I remember that my sister once brought me water. I remember people offering me their seats sometimes. It happens. It really does. Today, I waved at a little baby who waved at me. It was cute.

My professor gave us little broken pottery pieces once. You could see how it was made. Hands, tons of years ago, putting the clay like that. Shaped by hand. We were writing their qualities down. Archaeology. And I'd get to touch many artifacts, many statues, many inscriptions. Touched ages before me, made with love. Appreciated with care now.



And this is not to say "You have to love humanity!" or imply that I'm some fairy-tale fuck living in a Peter Pan world with my gullible fucking brain. Life is about choices. Here's mine. Here's my reasoning.

All in all, I still feel special because I managed to stay alive and come so far. Claudius died by poisoning. No matter how I die, neglect or not, I just know that I'll be happy to have lived. Humanity made beautiful art, I had the opportunity to study humanity's beautiful moments, and I am living so happily through this opportunity. Interconnected with our sweet past.

For the beautiful sarcophagi art of happy, truly happy couples of Etruscan times, I love humanity.

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