I. Am. Necrocosmicus.

I awake, as always, in confusion. Who am I? Where am I? Why am I?

As the darkness subsides, as my version of sanity returns, my befuddlement makes way for the usual anger. Anger at this superstitious, polluted world. Anger at the suffering in existence. Anger at my own willful complicity.

Shall I remain indoors, safe in my cocoon of provisions and distractions? Or shall I venture out into the city, risking spiritual contamination by my fellow inhabitants whom I daily scorn? Shall I again seek comfort from an overpriced coffee and the possibility (so negligible) of a rewarding interaction with my peers?

Of course I’ll try again, to fit in, to converse, to find contentment. And who knows? Perhaps the woman on the elevator understands the universe as I do. Perhaps the man at the bus stop has read War & Peace and found the same beauty, horror, and brilliance in its pages that so inspire me of late.  Maybe the vagrant I usually avoid will have insights into the nature of reality that I lack.

And I’ll never know unless I engage them. I’ll never understand humanity if I don’t embrace it. I must, at the very least, try.

I must.