T. S. A. H. H. L.

Dear Humanity,

I would like to formally resign from you—no offense, of course.

I love my fellow humans, as I’m sure you know. We are some of the smartest, most determined, most mysterious beings on the planet. Where would the world ever be without us?

…actually, don’t answer that.

Anyway—humanity has been fun. The mystery of everything has been fascinating to contemplate. The bravado of humans is quite charming, and inspiring, too. And human life, even in its painful moments, is interesting and quite special. The emotionality of it. The strange, indescribable parts of it I still don’t quite understand. All of it was worth living. For a time.

It’s been a blast. The thinking. The pondering. The thinking some more. The reading. The writing. The people. The time spent. The going to school and going to work and going to… work, again. The whole “is today my last day?” element of fear that plagues us every day of our fragile, unsuspecting lives—it’s all quite wonderful, really. But I’m done now.

What will I do, you ask? Well, without my mortality holding me back, I could do anything, really. I think I am now a god, beating my fists against the sky, causing thunder to resound in my wake—that would be sick. Or maybe I am a mermaid with a thick, gorgeous yellow tail, speeding through the sea amongst my fellow mermaid sisters and sharks and fish and coral. Perhaps I am even a beautiful fairy, beating my pale pink wings around a mystical garden thick with bushes and flowers of the prettiest pinks and purples. I could land on any of them, resting on the vines or petals with my light little feet. I think that would be quite nice.

You see, my human mind simply cannot take any of this mundanity anymore. Our blasted creator, or whatever/whoever the reason that we are here on this earth and were made in such a way, has blessed us with such an expansive imagination, yet no power to carry it out. Our magical, mystical thoughts must rot away in our minds like poison, even dying with age.

I will experience no such death. In order to escape such a fate, I must quit this life, and so I have.

I have bigger dreams to chase. I have worlds to discover. I have glorious skills to hone. I have awe-inspiring talents to display for all to see. I have chariots to ride on gloriously as I wield my bow with the skill and expertise of Apollo himself, and my golden-tipped arrow will beam florescently under the throbbing of a massive orange sun. I have powers to hone—powers that reside deep in my bones, passed down from generation to generation, and a heavy weight rests on my sick and awesome sorcessess shoulders, knowing that I must perfect my craft before I pass it on to the next promising young magic-user.

What is this power, you may ask? Perhaps it is the power of wielding water, the same water I once gulped down so desperately in my human days to, perhaps, hydrate myself and not die, or to, perhaps, avoid another kidney stone. Or perhaps it is fire—fire like the momentary touch of a scorching pan of muffins that blisters and burns flesh, once leaving ugly reddish burns against my mortal arms.

Do you see my issue now? Do you understand how humiliating it is, to have been human? To be human even still?

There are many fragilities that come with human life. There’s always things to look out for, things to avoid, things to fear.

I want to step out of this fear completely. I want to embrace everything my mind creates for me with open arms and a fiery heart, with a sense of boldness in knowing I can be so much more than what I once was. I want to have it all, or at least experience it all. I want to know so much more than my human mind could ever understand. And isn’t it such an irony, that it is my human mind that desires this so very much?

This mortal life has grown much too dull for me, and it has made me weak and lazy. I can admit that. I can admit that it was never even my plan at a young age to be a mermaid, or a sorceress, or a mighty god. I was somewhat satisfied keeping those things away—close to me, though, in the back of my imagination, where they could thrive whenever they could.

But as for my own human life, I think I wanted to be good. I wanted to be kind. I wanted to be intelligent, knowledgeable, and clever. I wanted to be comfortable and have fun. I wanted to read books alone, and watch movies with my loved ones. Most of all, I think, I wanted other people to like me. And not just some others—all others. I wanted them to see me. To hear me. To view me as a human being worth spending some of our very fleeting time with.

But life unravels, as it does, and my human dreams were proven just as impossible as my dreams of diving into the sea with my gorgeous yellow tail and gliding through clear waters. Because people don’t always like you. They don’t always stay. They don’t always do the right thing, and neither do you. And it becomes strangely unbearable, sometimes, to be stuck in this skin we find ourselves in, to be rendered so completely and utterly to our human selves.

Resignation from humanity is not an easy choice, believe it or not. There is something so wonderful about this life, about the simplicity, about the limitations and the wonder and the mystery. I will miss it.

But deep down, I think, I would sell it all away in a heartbeat.

All that to say—I am remaining firm in my resignation. And I will spend my last two weeks as a human well.