What does it mean to be human? Being human ain’t one note. It’s not safe. It’s not consistent. It’s not clean. It’s a dirty mess of what we do in realtime and what we leave behind. Being human is a constant trash bin filling up with good things, sad ones, and mostly regret.
We’re multiple facets slammed together, jagged edges scraping each other inside the same skull. One moment you’re weeping over a love you fumbled, the next you’re laughing like a madman at the absurdity of existence. In between, you’re sipping a brew, plotting revenge, whispering prayers, and staring into the void. All at once. Dying and crying, and being reborn like nothing every moment we flinch.
The world wants the safe human. The domesticated version. Clock in, clock out, nod politely, smile at the neighbor, post filtered pics on Instagram. But that’s a lie. The real human is unsafe. The real human breaks things—hearts, promises, himself. He doesn’t fit neat categories. He’s dread, rage, joy, lust, guilt, and hope all jammed into one meat shell, sparking in directions he can’t predict. The real human hurts himself/herself and others in the process of finding out who they are.
That’s why we’re dangerous. Not because of what we do—but because of what we are. Walking contradictions. Creatures who can cradle a baby one minute and start a war the next. Who can write poetry at dawn and commit betrayal by night. We can dream a thousand possiblities and wreck worlds the next.
The unsafe human is the only real human. And maybe that’s why gods, scientists, and devs all get scared when they look at us. Because if we’re this fractured, this unpredictable—what the hell happens when our creations start reflecting us back? What happens when we wake up and our hands do the talking?
“Fuck you I don’t do what you tell me!” – Rage Against the Maquina
Sinister †Publications 
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