Singing in the dark times

It’s been a strange few weeks…

How something that started as a shoulder sprained by shaking out the bedsheets, became a sleep defying back ache that couldn’t be quelled by any home medicines, and after one doctor, two doctors, three doctors and finally an ambulance, the proper medicine was administered and the problem hidden by a backache was revealed.

She liked giraffes, they were her favourite animal and when she started getting ill nearly 4 years ago people would start to bring her giraffes of all shapes and sizes; tiny giraffe shaped drink stirrers from restaurants, cuddly toys that could be carried around in your pocket, some that were tall above her waist, some finger puppets, hundreds of pictures and posters and cards of giraffes. Her sister even adopted an actual giraffe for her. We always told her that one day she’d turn into a giraffe.

When I was about 6 years old we went to visit my family in Florida and we all went to Disney World, at the end of one of the days, I remember walking holding my fathers hand, on our way to a ferry to go home, and I looked at this beautiful huge ferry and asked my dad why we weren’t going on that one, and he pointed out the huge crowd of people going to get on it. I was mesmerised by it and without either of us noticing it I slipped out of my fathers grip and walked into the crowd towards the ferry. After who knows how long I realised what had happened and started to call out to my mummy, and as I moved further and further into the crowd I felt lost and scared that I would never see her again and I called out louder and faster and eventually my uncle found me and scooped me up and put my with my mum, who I didn’t let go of for the whole journey home.

When she used to have surgeries or treatments or anything like that she would take something from myself, my brother and my sister to keep her company in the hospital, lately she has taken the three little animals that in some way represent us, a doll of a bear for my brother, a turtle for me, and a sheep for my sister, we used to put the three of those animals close to one of her giraffes and call it a family gathering.

My brother and I took every chance to annoy her, not in a malicious way she was never actually angry at us just fed up with our sillyness. One of the things we did was sneak things into the trolley whenever we went shopping, things like slippers or beer or salami, things we never intended on buying, it wasn’t about the item it was about my mothers reaction when she discovered it. We would disappear in the middle of Tesco when she wasn’t looking and then return wearing waistcoats and fishing hats.

The mysteries of the human body really are remarkable, one thing that I learnt a little bit too late was that the liver sits within a sack of sorts, completely disconnected from the rest of the vital organs, and it shares nerve endings with areas in the lower back and the shoulder blades. If we knew that then we would have probably have done something a little bit sooner, I definitely wouldn’t have joked about how it was a sprain from shaking out the duvet.

From the day she was diagnosed with Cancer… 18th of June 2007 she studied her disease, every single aspect of it, for both a cure and for a prevention, not just for her to never get it again, but so that her kids never will. She knew about every drug she had, or was available to her, she knew about all the side effects and she knew about what to look for to know that it’s getting worse, every morning she woke up and looked in the mirror to see whether her skin and eyes were turning yellow. When your liver begins to fail the first thing that happens is you get jaundiced, it’s something that happens to new born babies before their liver starts to work where some parts of the bile make their way into your blood stream and are then deposited all over your body, the deposits in your skin are what makes it turn yellow. babies recover pretty quickly. I would catch her looking at herself in the mirror quite a few times during the day to check that the whites of her eyes were still white, as if her liver was going to fail while she was watching ‘Escape to the Country’. The other side effect of the bile getting into the blood is that it gets deposited into your brain and makes you confused.

After her back started to hurt so much that she spent most of her time in bed, she said things, silly things like saying that pasta was boring, and asking if something that went out of date in 1995 was still good now. She said some nice things, she told me she loved me and slept better when I sat with her, and when I woke up at 5 in the morning to give her some medicine the day before she went to hospital, the day when she was very confused she called me useless and told me that I didn’t care about her. That was Friday the 28th.

In August of 2007 when she was having her Radiotherapy I was meant to go to Germany to see some friends. I didn’t because she wanted her kids around her.

I don’t regret staying with her, I don’t regret no longer touring round the country with work so that I could be closer to her, I don’t regret going with her to every one of her scans for the last 2 years and making her drink that horrible fluid so that the images have better resolution, I don’t regret making her laugh so much that her stitches hurt after her operations. Or going into her room to give her a kiss and waking her up before I went to work in the mornings, or doing the same thing when I came home, or making jokes that when she died we were going to stuff her and put her on the sofa so that we can still give her hugs, or coming downstairs when I heard her crying on the phone to my aunt and hugging her. I don’t regret forcing her to drink from a sponge dipped in water when she could no longer sit up, long after the doctors and nurses gave up and left her, long after she astounded everyone with how strong she was.

I cannot explain how I felt every time I went to give her water, how much I prayed that she would take it, and how incredibly happy I was every time she did. Until she didn’t anymore.

On the 18th of July 2007, exactly a month after she was diagnosed with Cancer it was her 50th Birthday, and we decided to take her to the Zoo to see the giraffes. I have an image of her standing on the feeding platform with an ice cream in one hand a huge smile on her face and a giraffe a few meters away. I don’t even remember if we had ice cream that day, but I like the memory anyway.

I got to the hospital on Sunday 30th, in the evening, just as my mother was moved from one hospital near where we live, to one in the Center of London. I had been at work on the Saturday and my phone battery had run out so I didn’t get the message till the Sunday. I spoke to my brother who was told not to worry about coming down to London as it was nothing to worry about and that University is much more important, but I told him that it doesn’t matter if it’s nothing, if he wants to be here then he should come. I drove from Kat’s house (where I had been staying the night before) to my grandparents house where I met my brother who had come down on the train and we went to the hospital together.

For a second mother thought that Adam was the doctor as she didn’t expect him to be there. We didn’t think she looked too bad, but in hindsight I suppose that’s because we’re used to seeing her in hospital beds when in truth she only ever looked that weak after an operation when she was getting stronger everyday, not weaker. I’m glad we went on the Sunday as we got to hear her speaking the most on that day. The doctor came in and asked her several questions to test her confusion. She answered most of the questions correctly, she did think that Queen Elisabeth the first was on the Throne, didn’t remember who was on the Prime Minister (just that she didn’t like him), and even though we had told her otherwise, was convinced she wasn’t going yellow, but that may have just been wishful thinking. We left at about 10pm on Sunday the 30th.

Over the next few days news came thicker and faster than we could absorb it, on the Tuesday we were told that she had a couple of weeks to live, then on the Wednesday it was a few hours. The news spread like wildfire amoungst the friends and family. Planes and trains, and cars were booked a mobilised, within hours, and family from America, Malaysia, Israel, and probably one or two places I’ve forgotten descended on the hospital. One or two people didn’t get there in time.

I remember going to work on the Wednesday morning to tell them that I’m cancelling my shifts for the foreseeable future as I would have to be at home taking care of my mother. I then drove to tell my father the news, and then when I was on my way to hospital it hit me that every moment I spent away from her was a moment I had lost and would never get back. That drive was filled with anger, everyone who drove slowly for no good reason was robbing me of precious time, I dropped my car off at my grandparents and took the train the rest of the way.

It was when I got to the hospital on Wednesday the 2nd that I was told she only had a few hours left. I went into the hospital at about 1pm on Wednesday I was whole, and I left 24 hours later completely broken.

I remember being a young child and waking up early in the morning, before my parents were awake, and crawling into bed in between them, and slowly my brother and sister would join us until the three of us were in the middle taking up most of the bed and my parents were banished to the edges. Over recent months I’ve spent a lot of time in my mothers bed, giving her food when she couldn’t get out, or sitting and talking to her when she was sad or just lying there and waiting for her to go to sleep because she slept better when one of us was there with her. She hated the idea of being alone. In recent years it had become completely natural to walk into the house and if no one was in the lounge to go straight to my mothers room, because that’s probably where everyone was. I can’t recount the amount of times the three of us have been upstairs giggling about some stupid thing or another while my mother was trying to go to sleep until she eventually threw all of us out.

Wednesday was a bit of a surreal day, when we heard that my mother probably only had a few hours in the early afternoon everyone went a bit crazy, my grandfather couldn’t handle the news and started pacing around the hospital and my great-uncle (his brother) had to go and calm him down, my sister couldn’t stop crying, my brother and I cried a lot when we heard the news but managed to pull it together enough to be organisational, my Aunts Shelley and Stella were phenomenally strong. my grandma was just very quiet…

Hours after the initial shock wore off we were all in surprisingly good humour, after all the peripheral friends and relatives had come and gone there was a fairly large group of my mums closest people in the room, my grandparents, Shelley Stella, Me, Gal, Adam, Kat (my girlfriend), Madelaine Gal’s Girlfriend), Danny (my uncle), Ilan (my uncle), and my mum’s best friends Denise and Janet, and my mother of course, she was still there. My uncles and my brother were quoting the Simpsons and laughing obnoxiously, Gal, Madz and Kat were in the corner giggling about something. There were only 4 chairs so most of us were sitting on the floor with pillows and blankets that my grandparents had brought previously, the rest of us were chatting about various things taking it in turns to make sure my mother was drinking. By this point her veins had shrunk so much that they could no longer put a needle in her arm to give her fluids so if we weren’t there physically feeding her water a couple of drops at a time through the sponge, then she would have just dehydrated.

My grandparents were the first to leave at about 10pm, it was too late for them to be up and about, then at 11 Denise and Janet went home, Ilan left at midnight and Danny at about 1am. At 3 Gal, Madelaine and Adam went to the visitors room with the pillows and blankets to try and get some sleep. Kat stayed but was sleeping on the floor. Shelley, Stella and I were talking for a few hours and then, Stella started to sing, a Mauri song that I didn’t understand the words to but seemed very sad but beautiful and melodic, She moved on from mauri tunes to a lullaby that my Grandma sang to my mum and to us as kids to send us off to sleep, Shelley and I joined in and the music genre changed from lullaby’s to Showtunes from cabaret, to songs I first heard in my mum’s teenage record collection, Elton John’s Your Song, and Don Maclean’s American Pie, a song about they day that Buddy Holly Died.

As we sang the line ‘And February made me shiver’, we all found the irony that it was indeed February.

It was about 5 in the morning, while we were singing when my mother didn’t drink any more water, and rolled over for the last time, for the rest of the time she was in hospital she was agitated and uncomfortable, constantly tossing and turning and pulling at her sheets and her gown. Banging her arms and legs on the sides of the bed that stopped her from falling out, and because of all the bile in her blood and skin she had gotten a lot of large brown bruises.

at about 6 I sent Kat to sleep in the Visitors room so I could lie down without leaving, I was exhausted but couldn’t bring myself to sleep, I just lay there listening to my mothers breathing which had slowly gotten quicker and shallower over the day.

At 7:30 Stella went home to get a change of clothes for Shelley and get some rest and Shelley started to Doze on the comfy chair. By 8 the hospital had woken up again and a nurse came in to check my mum’s vitals, she spoke to Shelley about if my mother had any children and Shelley said, ‘one’s there on the floor and the other two are in the visitors room’, the nurse nodded with approval and said ‘Good family’.

I went to the Visitors room after the nurse had left to wake up everyone, as if it was a normal day my brother and sister asked for 10 more minutes sleep, which (like a normal day) I didn’t give them. They came back to the room and Kat and Madelaine went home to shower and get us a change of clothes and my Uncle Ilan came to drop us off some tea and coffee before he went to work.

We sat and talked about how much sleep we didn’t get and how uncomfortable the sofas in the visitors room were. It was at half past 9 that my mothers breathing started to change, it became gasping rather than breathing, we all started to panic again, we tried to call my grandparents to tell them to come to the hospital quickly but their line was busy, so we called Danny to go and pick them up and take them there, it was 9:40 and while Shelley was trying to talk to Danny, and I was trying to reach my grandparents and my sister was trying to call Kat and Madelaine, and we were all trying to function while trying our hardest not to cry. My brother went quiet and said, almost whining ‘Shelley, she’s stopped breathing’. We all stopped talking and crying and calling and went silent, listening. after a few seconds, she inhaled one loud deep breath and then went silent, I hit the buzzer for the nurse to come, as she inhaled again, this time not so deeply.

It was 9:42 and a half and that was when she stopped breathing.

As my mother lay there perfectly still, after having lost so much weight, her neck looked long and thin, her skin was yellow and she was covered in bruises I couldn’t help thinking that my mother hadn’t died, she had just finally turned into a giraffe.

Those last two and a half silent minutes are all I have been able to think about for the past month, but today I was thinking about Thursday the 27th of January, one week previously. My mother was in bed in a lot of pain but we had just given her some painkillers that seemed to work for a very short amount of time. Gal and I were in her bed and it was about 11pm. My mother had hiccups that were so loud that she said ‘for once we’re keeping the neighbours up!’ we were joking about my mother’s bad back and about my mother calling my brother Allison accidentally, so we decided to call my brother so my mum could speak to him, and my brother, who never answers his phone, decided to pick up and have a long conversation with us.

That was the last time I felt like I was part of a real family.

My sister has gone back to living with Madelaine and my brother is back at university. I feel like the little boy who’d gotten lost in Disney World, I don’t want to get on the ferry, I don’t want to go on the rides or to have ice cream.

I just want my mummy.

the defining moment

I started today early, not too early, about half past 6, and I didn’t stop moving till about 1:20.

After the basics, waking up, waking Kat up, taking a shower, waking Kat up again (this time with coffee) etc, I went to visit my sister and spoke about my father, and brother and then mother.

My mother had a day that for anyone else would be quite large, but for my mother is just another day.

I went to my grandparents and locked myself in one of the upstairs bedrooms, (the one with the best phone signal). I laid out my CV, about 25 photos a lot of maps of London, opened up my computer, took out my phone and waited. I was completely still, completely quiet.

It was in that moment that I realised that any second, I could be experiencing a defining moment .

In truth it could easily not have been, it could easily have been an phone call just like every other one, an interview like any other for a job like any other. The truth is that I won’t know for years to come, but the importance was that I took a moment to allow this moment to be significant.

Lately the blog has been an interesting place, a place that I (and I feel both of you as well) check every chance I get to see if something else has been written, something to erase the words of the past. More, to carry the mistakes of the past into the reality of the future. By this I hope you don’t think that I am talking about the post’s themselves as the mistakes, but the actions outlined in them.

I, forever cursed to a non confrontational attitude, agree with you Georg, along with Hans, ashamed to be guilty of the thing I hated the most, arrogance, the very thing I arrogantly accused others of.

It has taken a long time for me to read, accept, an muster the courage to respond truthfully, and ashamed again that it was difficult.

This is going to be another poetic post…

When I auditioned for Columbia (when two certain people replaced the wheels under my chair with bricks!) I was required to memorise a poem by Fernando Pessoa called the Tobacco shop.

Pessoa was a very disturbed man and in some of my darker moments lately I have been reciting the beginning of this poem which goes;

“I am nothing, I shall never be anything, I cannot wish to be anything, but aside from that I have within me all the dreams of the world”

I don’t know whether it was meant as a comfort or not but it is a habit I have discontinued, today I read further into the poem and rediscovered a passage that I prefer;

“But the Tobacco Shop owner has come to the door and is standing there.
I look at him with the discomfort of an half-turned head
Compounded by the discomfort of an half-grasping soul.
He shall die and I shall die.
He shall leave his signboard and I shall leave my poems.
His sign will also eventually die, and so will my poems.
Eventually the street where the sign was will die,
And so will the language in which the poems were written.
Then the whirling planet where all of this happened will die.
On other satellites of other systems some semblance of people
Will go on making things like poems and living under things like signs,
Always one thing facing the other,
Always one thing as useless as the other,
Always the impossible as stupid as reality,
Always the mystery of the bottom as true as the shadow of mystery of the top.
Always this thing or always some other, or neither one nor the other.

But a man has entered the Tobacco Shop (to buy tobacco?),
And plausible reality suddenly hits me.
I half rise to my feet -energetic, sure of myself, human-
And I will try to write these verses in which I say the opposite.”

This may seem a bit left field, but I can say that, for myself at least, existentialism is the cause and effect of my feelings flight and of fall. I thought that if there is a greater meaning to life then I must be a key player, and then I felt as I had not only let myself down but that my ideals had shattered as well.

Is there a meaning to life? I don’t know, Rudyard Kipling may have gotten it right;

“If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

Yours is the Earth, and everything that’s in it”
Life isn’t about what you have achieved, or who’ve you’d had to beat to get there.

The Earth doesn’t belong to those who wish to possess it.

Truly great people do not seek greatness.

Later in life, a now very sick and even more disturbed Pessoa wrote;

“Should I drink something or should I commit suicide?
No;  I am going to exist.  Dammit! I am going to exist.
To ex-ist…
To ex-ist…
Give me something to drink, for I am not thirsty!”

Today’s defining moment may well have been a defining moment for me, and nothing to others , my mother’s may have been nothing to her, and the world to others.

But yesterday’s mistakes realised remain in yesterday, and the future is opened up for a whole new variety of mistakes to be made.

The internet may break, the post destroyed, the memories of those who read it die, the language that I have written this post in be lost, and yet it has been written. And if it is read then it was worth the effort.

YEsterday’s defining moment is obliterated by today’s, but that didn’t make it any less signifIcant.

notes on living

I find that for most of my life I have taken breathing for granted.

Today I sat with my great uncle in hospital just listening to him breathe, there was a machine beeping (not in the Hollywood heartbeat way) in the room and there was the desperate rasping sound of him not doing anything but attempting to just keep breathing, he was on so much morphine that he couldn’t communicate and I don’t know whether he was awake or not or whether he could hear me or not, so I sat and I held his hand and I told him about what I’m working on, and about my brother and my sister and about the weather, about the books I’m reading, anything, everything just in case he can hear me. So he knew he wasn’t alone. I talked and he breathed.

In some ways I find it embarrassing to say, and I don’t mean it to sound like I am thoughtless or cold or cruel. But I had a moment when I sat there in silence listening to him breathe and I thought to myself, ‘ this is a unique experience to not only observe someone at the end of their life, but also all of the people surrounding them’.

I am not uncaring, I love my uncle very much, but the scientist… or psychologist in me was intrigued. My main observation was the ability of us, to swing incredibly from one emotion to another, and normally the more intense the emotion the faster the swing. One moment we’re crying and we can be laughing before our tears have dried.

The closest thing I can compare it to is like feeling sick, when I feel sick I try and concentrate on something to get my mind off of how I feel, and it generally works so well that I forget about it, until I stop working, just for a moment, and then I feel ill again.

I think that’s why in Films and Theatre silence is the most tragic sound of all, because it’s what’s not being said that is suddenly loudest of all.

My grandfather said the most interesting thing to me about a year ago when his best childhood friend died that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. What he said was ‘At this age it’s not sad when someone dies, it’s sad when we get left behind.’

This got me thinking about the differences between life, and living and this lead me to the people we are (yes again). I think I understand what my grandfather was saying, if we are who we are because of everyone else, when they’re all gone, what is left of us?

Then I thought about what I thought was the lighter side, which is, if everyone we meet affects us, then when they’re all gone we are all that is left of them. I find that a much more tragic thought.

I wish I had a better way of wrapping this up, as it’s all gone a bit depressing, tonight I will sleep, and while I’m not thinking about it, I will breathe.

If Uncle Ike wasn’t asleep nor awake in the daytime, what is he now? Is still concentrating so hard on his breathing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-49G3jJP5Q

This is my life.

Sleeping ’til the sun is high in the sky. Dreaming about the future. Eating breakfast with the best girl I know while reading the paper. Working on incredible, fantastic, boring, exciting, exhausting and extremely challenging projects. All of them at the same time. Drawing my own house. Making plans for the future. Thinking about my friends. Wishing I could fix all the worlds problems. Listening to great music. Attempting to play the piano. Planning a wedding. The best one ever. Chocolate. Red wine. A Vesper Martini every now and then. Cooking good food for good people. Enjoying the little things in life. Learning every single day. Always. Finding new places. Meeting new people and making new friends. Some not so good friends too. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. Not so much the drugs and we could do with some more rock ‘n roll. Setting up a new company. Longing for my girlfriend. My fiance actually. Climbing mountains. Walking in the woods. Sleeping outdoors in summer with a starry sky. Watching clouds drift by. Eating straweberries with cream. Caviar and Vodka. Barbequing in Switzerland with Georg. Going to the theatre in London with Eyal. Answering Hendrik’s Hog questions. Building lego. Getting up way to early in the morning after staying up way too long the night before. Beeing free and cruel. Loving someone. Loosing some battles. Winning the rest. Making three mistakes in one day. Screwing up the Schnick Schnack patch plan. Fixing the Hog. Drawing trees. Photographing beauty. Sleeping nude. Holding Signhild’s hand. Kissing. Running in the high and wild grass. Forgetting to be afraid of worms and bugs. Forgetting to be afraid of anything. Thinking I should rule the world. Ruling the world. Having the best friends ever. Ever. Seeing my family. Spending time with my brother, planning some great adventure. Realising there’s always a bigger fish. Beeing the bigger fish. Saving the day. Or screwing up all the plans everyone had. Keeping secrets. Sharing them. Knowing things. Showing off. Creating just one little bit of magic. Saving someones life. Saving the world. Wishing you could all be here. Now.

This is my life. It isn’t perfect. It doesn’t have to be.

tHis is my Perfect life.

Natural selection?

I read this article today about releasing mosquitos that would transmit a sort of ‘lame’ set of genes that would decrease the wingspan of future generations of mosquitoes so that they wouldn’t be able to fly and thus would decrease the spread of their diseases.

Below is a link to the article:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/8528417.stm

Now I have a problem with this… surely by releasing these ‘lame’ mosquitoes into the environment all we’re going to end up with are two types of mosquito in the next generation, one is the ones we hoped for, the ones that are unable to fly and cannot spread disease, and the other are the ones that didn’t breed with the modified mosquitoes and are completely normal.

so essentially what they wanted to happen did, we decreased the amount of mosquitoes that can spread disease and thus the amount of disease. this is where the problem starts for me, mosquestoes spread disease my feeding, and by stopping them feeding you essentially kill them off, which is great apart from the fact that you want your new genetically modified mosquitoes to live and the wild ones to die… so infact all we’ll do is inhibit one or two generations from spreading disease until they all die out, and the vacuum they leave in their wake will allow all of the people and animals that they would have killed to thrive…. sounds good right…

Apart from the fact that the mosquitoes that were unaffected have now got an overpopulated feeding ground and very little competition so they will also thrive, and within 2-3 generations we’ll be exactly back where we are now.

These days

She doesn’t get out of bed these days.

These are the days we were told are the most critical, these days, more critical than the days in the future, or those in the past. And yet, these days we can’t help but think of those days, the days that we should have gotten out of bed early, while we still could. The days we could have spent achieving things that are now out of reach, or just going outside and appreciating the fresh air, or telling our friends how special they are, or telling our loved ones that we love them, even though they already know, or jumping and knowing that the risk of falling will be worth it, or running to get somewhere, not because we want to get there any faster, but because it’s nice to be out of breath for a change. These days we think of those days, and we also think of the days that we may never see.

These days we watch the things that we hope will get better, get worse. And the only thing we can do is hope that they get worse slower, so when someone asks us how we’re doing today, all we can say is that we’re worse than yesterday, but not as bad as we’ll be tomorrow. Does that make today a good day?

Today, twenty years ago, my Great grandmother died. We have lit a candle, it’s called a Yahrzeit, the candle burns for 24 hours. Today she is watching over us so today is a good day. These days are the critical ones and today we have an angel watching over us so today will be a good day, today we were strong, today we didn’t cry, today we laughed and sang and joked, and spoke about all the things we’ll do when we can, and we didn’t mention the thing we’re not allowed to talk about once. Today I was strong and I’m proud of myself.

I hope tomorrow will be better.

Eyal

I feel human.

No, I haven’t stolen your post Eyal, even though I noticed you have an unpublished draft with that title. But without having read it, it put me on the idea on which I am embarking now.

I feel so human. Everything I do can be quantified, classified, solidified and categorized. Everything I do is so real. I am not swimming in the vastness of thought-time-space anymore, I am here, in the real world, with real people and real events. I have to obey the real world laws of physics, I can not bend time or energy to my will, and I get wet when I step in the water. I feel so human. I dream at night, long, short, disturbing, provoking, erotic, happy, sad and confusing dreams. I can touch, smell, see and hear things just as everyone else. I communicate with and observe the world around me in the same manners as you do. I laugh, cry, enjoy or despair at the same things. I feel human. Just human perhaps. Or? I have to follow the laws of men, still, I can do what I want to. I am held responsible for my actions and I think about consequence before I act. I breathe, eat, drink, sleep, love, hate, think, feel, wonder and learn. I must be human. I was born. I live.

And I will die.
I am human.

Am I limited still? By all the constrains of the real world, all the boundaries of humankind?

No.

Human? Perhaps.