No, I do not think I am Human

My shell has rotted beyond recognition, the prism of humanity fractured into compost. I have felt the humanness decay off my flesh.

I feel incomprehension at the kaleidoscopic inside that is my expression; I fall between the crevices of identity, rigidity, meaning, singularity. I am not one thing, and I am not one identity.

I recoil at every attack on my infinite and brittle self from the outside. It is through the laughably simple throwing of words and names at me that my fragile insides creak. The recoil at Man or Woman.

I feel pain with cosmic anger at the simple misrecognition. Disgust at the unreachability of my infinite inside to the outside.

Acceleration, of those simplicities that hide the hyperwar of a ten thousand year struggle of oppression—Man over Woman. The speeding up of those traps promising freedom. Gender exploring itself, into unravelling at an ever-increasing speed. Hurrying into decomposition, gender loses meaning, fracturing into multiplicity.

It is with the radical futurism of an anarchistic supernova that gender unbinds into the infinity of identity. I am no longer Man, I threw off the uniform of a ten thousand year struggle of oppression. I am no longer Woman, I find freedom only as a farce, and seek to escape that prison too. I lose my humanity.

Here we stand, on the fringe of a cosmic magma of all identity and feeling. I unbound my shell and decomposed my words. I now feel free.

No, I do not think I am Human.

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