By Charles Riffenburg IV
The condition of being human hung upon him as if it were a fetid overcoat. It was a thing of grotesqueness, hideous in its appearance in everyday life. The others there were all adept at hiding such weakness; they wrestled their humanity into a cold prison cell in their souls. So when he strided into the room fully flaunting the regalia of his humanness, fully accepting of his flaws and gifts, demonstrated with a shrug and a wry smirk to any who cared, there were whispers. To the others it was blasphemous; to them, his acceptance of himself was a demonstration - a screaming pink neon sign- aimed straight at their own cowardice and shame. He was an embarrassment to all but himself. And to the credit of mankind, for all the world he did not care. Love, in its beauty, had purged his soul of hate and insecurities and left him free to soar above them, smiling his smile and enjoying at long last, what it means to be human.