In a paradoxical way, I am jealous of the ignorant, the passionless, and robotic.
Perhaps ignorance is bliss after all. For, how can you suffer if you're comfortably snuggled up to the blind warmth of oblivion? How can one truly grieve failure if one doesn't know his unhindered potential?
I envy that their hearts are impregnable to the mite-sized seeds of love that could be sowed from the mere interaction with a stranger. Seeds that would germinate and test the material and capacity of their tenderness--the mind's heart.
Only sometimes I wish I were like the passionless: the ones who lack the ability to be awestruck at the predictive powers of physics, and at how DNA sequencing illustrates a beautiful, ordered hierarchy from mankind to plant life. (Science champions the notion and reality of interconnectedness. Ideological barriers are man-made.) Imagine never having known of the beautiful journey of making love to witnessing the birth of it. You'd never have to suffer it's loss.
Imagine not knowing that you are allowed to think freely. You wouldn't be subjected to the wrath of the robots for doing so. You wouldn't be castigated for having dissenting ideas in a mini-world of radical conformists.
But that's a life I don't want. I'd rather feel. I'm a being. I'm sentient. I'd rather make love than lose it. I'd rather laugh, learn, and live; allow my heart to be riddled with emotions. Easily, I choose to remain hyper-aware, cognizant of the fact that I'll witness the details of pain as well as the beautiful things. Without a doubt, I'll trade no tangible thing for my imagination--and as of this sentence, I'm sure that the aforementioned jealousy was just a fleeting figment of just that--my imagination Because I do NOT envy them.
Have a good one lads and lovelies,
Derrick