I can't sleep.
I do not... know, what sleep is. I see people lay on beds, and their breath slows and their eyes flutter. They lay, silent (or sometimes not. Some yell out. Some make a strange, loud, steady noise. I do not know why. I do not know a lot of things. I think... that should bother me. I think it bothered me once. Or did it? Maybe I made it up. I think that should bother me too.
Sometimes, I wonder about sleep. I wonder what it feels like. Why humans do it. If I am human. I do not think so. I do not sleep. Every human sleeps. Right? Or is this place just strange? Are humans defined simply by facts of nature? You sleep, you talk, you eat. Does that make you human?
I have many questions about humans.
Am I human?
If those questions are truly what makes a human, well… then I am not. Humans like to speak to one another. Or not. Sometimes their gaze follows someone until they are seen, and they flinch and pretend they were looking somewhere else. Why? Why do they enjoy the company of some, but not others? Are they not all human? I know they are different in looks, or I assume they are. They. Us? I don't know. My skin is white as the ebony frame around a picture of a trio of humans that used to hang above a child’s bed. Family, they call it. It is called family, but I think those they live with aren't always family. This one was something (maybe family), but now it isn't. They are broken. They shout and they scream. Maybe it is normal. Maybe I am broken. Maybe that is human.
Maybe I am not human. I think I am not human.
I hope I am not human.
I see a woman smash a bottle into shards over a child's head. He is my size. He looks... like me, I suppose. I am not the same though. We are similar, but not the same. He is human. I am something else. I watch him stare at the woman feverishly during the nights, when she is on the couch and the sharp scent of alcohol surrounds her. She is... asleep.
I do not know what asleep means.
The boy creeps over to her and watches her with such a deep, tortured look of wanting. I have heard it is called hunger. I do not feel that. Hunger. He does not want food though. I do not understand. Does he want her? Does he want her to love him and cherish him and pretend she has done nothing terrible and she has not hurt him? Something wars in that poor child's eyes. I do not think a child should have such pools of deep, understanding blue. I am not sure why. The word sympathy comes to mind. Is that human?
I don't... think so?
The woman doesn't feel it. I'm quite sure of that. I've seen wild, savage eyes as she nearly foams at the mouth. That's what I think of. A hyena, dangerous and alone and ready to bite at anything that comes near because she thinks it is danger.
That is not human. I know that. The boy does not act like that. Neither did the man who lived here, then vanished. The woman was not human after that. The woman became the creature she is now, not eating as far as I can see. Simply drinking alcohol and beer until she sleeps.
Is that what sleep is?
Drinking yourself into a stupor and then passing out from who knows what?
The boy does not do that.
The woman didn't do it before.
What changed?
Change.
Is that what makes a human human? Changing and adapting to whatever they are forced into? The boy has changed to become silent and withdrawn, eyes wide and rarely blinking, as if the woman will hurt him the moment he shows he is unaware of his surroundings in a single second of darkness. Is it dark when humans sleep? Are they aware of everything around them, as if they were awake, but it's only that their eyes are shut?
That would be odd, if so. The breathing changes a little ways into the silence in the dark, not immediately. Is the breath caused by sleep? I do not know. I do not know.
I think maybe this family is not family. Sometimes I follow the boy away from this place and to another and I see him light up, and his shattered heart gets hot and melts together and becomes one sheet of glass again, but it still shows scars. Then he is hit again and again and again when he returns to the woman and he shatters and he allows it. Why? Why does he allow it? I have seen... others, like him, at the place he goes for five days. Other children hit not him but different people, again and again and again, but humans are supposed to be resilient and fight back. Some do.
Some don't.
Why?
I do not remember, but I think that once, I did. Whether I was the latter or the former, I feel it is better if I don't remember. What if I was the third option? The person hurting the child. The woman smashing a bottle like it is a lifeline.
So I think the boy's others are his family.
I wonder if other humans sleep. I have never stayed away from these slowly decaying walls for long enough to know. I feel... a pull, perhaps? Is that the word? I think it is. It whispers to me. I need to go back. I need to go back. I need to go back. Then I whisper back, Why?
It acts as if I do not speak. I am used to that. No one has ever responded, that I can remember. Do I wish they would? Would it make a difference to me if I said, "I do wish she wouldn't do that," and the boy looked up from his bed and responded in a small voice, "What are you?"
How would I answer that question? Would I answer with an I don't know? Would I simply say, "Not human?"
So what is human?
Perhaps it is the scent of alcohol, swirling in sharp stabs into your nose and making you sneeze.
Perhaps it is hugging your knees to your chest at night and allowing sobs to wrack your frame.
Perhaps it is not permitting those sobs.
Perhaps it is the sound of slowed breaths in what is called sleep.
Perhaps being human is wondering:
What makes me human?
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139,978 Literary Works • 672,807 Reviews
Hello, My Friend!
Pleasure to meet you, Jade (and welcome to YWS)!! I'm Raven, and I thought I'd give your lovely work here a nice review! Hope you don't mind!
To start, WOW! This was a fantastic read, and if this is the kind of stuff you'll be bringing to the site, I can't wait to see what else you'll post! This long contemplation from what may or may not be a human, asking questions you can't help but pause and think about with each new addition, and the general uncertainty behind who is telling us this...All of it is so mysterious and reflective, I just love it!!
*ahem* As for a more technical review, I don't have much to recommend for improvement! If I was reaaaally racking my brain, I guess I could suggest...
This is just a little formatting nitpick—wholly based on personal opinion—but I think that "Change" line might look a little nicer if it were italicized, and maybe had an ellipsis (...) following it? I feel like that would make it read like the narrator is saying it with more deliberation, and fit the overall tone a little more—but again, that's just me!
This is the only other thing I can think to put in recommendations, and it's a tiny thing really! First, just curious, was "stayed" supposed to be "strayed" by chance? Or am I just reading that wrong? Second, I feel like the topic switch here was a little more abrupt than elsewhere. Like one moment, we're focused on this boy and his family, then the very next line—BOOM, back to the subject of sleep! I actually like this idea to loop sleep back into it again, since that's such a recurring element, but for a slightly smoother transition, I think even just a slight adjustment would help here. Like maybe saying, "I wonder if they sleep too" or something??
Hopefully that all makes sense, but if not, please do just ignore me <3
Now, enough with the technical stuff—let's move onto the FUN stuff!! My highlights and reactions, and I have a lot!
Okay, right off the bat, love this as a little hook to bring us into the story. It's short, simple, immediately establishes the recurring theme, and draws our curiosity!
Another thing I loved about this whole story is the uncertainty of the narrator, including how they describe themself. Maybe I'm just a little too attuned to the fantasy and horror genres (my specialty!), but it actually had me second-guessing if this was intended to come off as just a human making observations about their species through a unique lens, or if this was intended to sound like the narrator actually isn't human, and we're looking at all of this through a third-party-view in a way.
Ah, I love these questions! I like how they can be read through that perspective of dry satirical humor, or something a little deeper, if you're feeling introspective enough. And to really mess with your brain, you can ask yourself, what makes you inhuman? Hm...
The story of the broken family was so sad! We're definitely veering into the darker side of humanity here, and man, that "I hope I am not human" after wondering if THIS is humanity hit hard.
Interesting change of tone here, though. I definitely think we can universally recognize that this kind of behavior is not what we could consider "human" in our broader sense of the word!
Oh man, this moment...The way you describe this, using the glass heart metaphor, is so poetic in its own right, and just fit the moment so good. So sad, but also, I love it!
Ooo, what a way to close out this piece!! Great question!!
Overall, that story was just incredible, and you did a great job! Nicely done!
"They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night."
"Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.”
"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty."
Thanks! I wrote it a while ago but I'm really proud of it <3
Being human, is a complex of things. Being human is basically being something that animals are not. Animals can't react or feel the same emotions we do(correct me if I am wrong).
''I do not... know, what sleep is. I see people lay on beds, and their breath slows and their eyes flutter. They lay, silent or sometimes not. Some yell out. Some make a strange, loud, steady noise.''
FINALLY, I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO QUESTIONS WHAT IS SLEEP!
''Why? Why do they enjoy the company of some, but not others? Are they not all human? I know they are different in looks, or I assume they are. They. Us? I don't know. My skin is white as the ebony frame around a picture of a trio of humans that used to hang above a child’s bed. Family, they call it. It is called family, but I think those they live with aren't always family. This one was something (maybe family), but now it isn't. They are broken. They shout and they scream. Maybe it is normal. Maybe I am broken. Maybe that is human.
Maybe I am not human. I think I am not human.
I hope I am not human.''
Now, I know I might get a lot of hate when I say this. But even Hitler was human. Even though he did terrible things, and I probably wished his downfall, he is still a human. No matter what you have done in the past, even if you have committed murder, you are human. When you say you have no emotion, there has to at least been a moment where you have shed a tear. I don't believe that no matter how bad somebody is, they are still human.
''So what is human?
Perhaps it is the scent of alcohol, swirling in sharp stabs into your nose and making you sneeze.
Perhaps it is hugging your knees to your chest at night and allowing sobs to wrack your frame.
Perhaps it is not permitting those sobs.
Perhaps it is the sound of slowed breaths in what is called sleep.
Perhaps being human is wondering:
What makes me human?''
I like how as the poem progresses the narrator continues to question about what makes them human. What makes someone human?
Loved this poem friend!
Being human, is a complex of things. Being human is basically being something that animals are not. Animals can't react or feel the same emotions we do(correct me if I am wrong).
''I do not... know, what sleep is. I see people lay on beds, and their breath slows and their eyes flutter. They lay, silent or sometimes not. Some yell out. Some make a strange, loud, steady noise.''
FINALLY, I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO QUESTIONS WHAT IS SLEEP!
''Why? Why do they enjoy the company of some, but not others? Are they not all human? I know they are different in looks, or I assume they are. They. Us? I don't know. My skin is white as the ebony frame around a picture of a trio of humans that used to hang above a child’s bed. Family, they call it. It is called family, but I think those they live with aren't always family. This one was something (maybe family), but now it isn't. They are broken. They shout and they scream. Maybe it is normal. Maybe I am broken. Maybe that is human.
Maybe I am not human. I think I am not human.
I hope I am not human.''
Now, I know I might get a lot of hate when I say this. But even Hitler was human. Even though he did terrible things, and I probably wished his downfall, he is still a human. No matter what you have done in the past, even if you have committed murder, you are human. When you say you have no emotion, there has to at least been a moment where you have shed a tear. I don't believe that no matter how bad somebody is, they are still human.
''So what is human?
Perhaps it is the scent of alcohol, swirling in sharp stabs into your nose and making you sneeze.
Perhaps it is hugging your knees to your chest at night and allowing sobs to wrack your frame.
Perhaps it is not permitting those sobs.
Perhaps it is the sound of slowed breaths in what is called sleep.
Perhaps being human is wondering:
What makes me human?''
I like how as the poem progresses the narrator continues to question about what makes them human. What makes someone human?
Loved this poem friend!
Being human, is a complex of things. Being human is basically being something that animals are not. Animals can't react or feel the same emotions we do(correct me if I am wrong).
''I do not... know, what sleep is. I see people lay on beds, and their breath slows and their eyes flutter. They lay, silent or sometimes not. Some yell out. Some make a strange, loud, steady noise.''
FINALLY, I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO QUESTIONS WHAT IS SLEEP!
''Why? Why do they enjoy the company of some, but not others? Are they not all human? I know they are different in looks, or I assume they are. They. Us? I don't know. My skin is white as the ebony frame around a picture of a trio of humans that used to hang above a child’s bed. Family, they call it. It is called family, but I think those they live with aren't always family. This one was something (maybe family), but now it isn't. They are broken. They shout and they scream. Maybe it is normal. Maybe I am broken. Maybe that is human.
Maybe I am not human. I think I am not human.
I hope I am not human.''
Now, I know I might get a lot of hate when I say this. But even Hitler was human. Even though he did terrible things, and I probably wished his downfall, he is still a human. No matter what you have done in the past, even if you have committed murder, you are human. When you say you have no emotion, there has to at least been a moment where you have shed a tear. I don't believe that no matter how bad somebody is, they are still human.
''So what is human?
Perhaps it is the scent of alcohol, swirling in sharp stabs into your nose and making you sneeze.
Perhaps it is hugging your knees to your chest at night and allowing sobs to wrack your frame.
Perhaps it is not permitting those sobs.
Perhaps it is the sound of slowed breaths in what is called sleep.
Perhaps being human is wondering:
What makes me human?''
I like how as the poem progresses the narrator continues to question about what makes them human. What makes someone human?
Loved this poem friend!
Being human, is a complex of things. Being human is basically being something that animals are not. Animals can't react or feel the same emotions we do(correct me if I am wrong).
''I do not... know, what sleep is. I see people lay on beds, and their breath slows and their eyes flutter. They lay, silent or sometimes not. Some yell out. Some make a strange, loud, steady noise.''
FINALLY, I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO QUESTIONS WHAT IS SLEEP!
''Why? Why do they enjoy the company of some, but not others? Are they not all human? I know they are different in looks, or I assume they are. They. Us? I don't know. My skin is white as the ebony frame around a picture of a trio of humans that used to hang above a child’s bed. Family, they call it. It is called family, but I think those they live with aren't always family. This one was something (maybe family), but now it isn't. They are broken. They shout and they scream. Maybe it is normal. Maybe I am broken. Maybe that is human.
Maybe I am not human. I think I am not human.
I hope I am not human.''
Now, I know I might get a lot of hate when I say this. But even Hitler was human. Even though he did terrible things, and I probably wished his downfall, he is still a human. No matter what you have done in the past, even if you have committed murder, you are human. When you say you have no emotion, there has to at least been a moment where you have shed a tear. I don't believe that no matter how bad somebody is, they are still human.
''So what is human?
Perhaps it is the scent of alcohol, swirling in sharp stabs into your nose and making you sneeze.
Perhaps it is hugging your knees to your chest at night and allowing sobs to wrack your frame.
Perhaps it is not permitting those sobs.
Perhaps it is the sound of slowed breaths in what is called sleep.
Perhaps being human is wondering:
What makes me human?''
I like how as the poem progresses the narrator continues to question about what makes them human. What makes someone human?
Loved this poem friend!
What makes us human? This is a question that people have answered for a long time.
To me, being human means you can control yourself, as long as it's acceptable. If you want to be accepted in society, yo have to go with the flow and be original. Be your true self, that's what people tell you. But then corporations tell us "don't be your true self, follow the formula!" I take offense to that, because when you follow trends, you'll be lost in a sea of imitators. Following trends isn't a bad thing, but at least be original with it.
Anyways, the story follows ur protagonist as they wonder who they're supposed to be in life as they seem all their tragedies before us. They're worried about their family, their home, and the people they deal with. They don't know what it takes to be human; they're lost in an empty and shiftless void they can't get out of. They're stuck, humiliated, and even beaten to death. I feel that being stuck is a common problem among people. You don't know who you are or where you are. It's a problem so many young people deal with nowadays.
The prose is really good too. I like how it alternates between short sentences to reassure the reader where our protagonist is, and long sentences to describe who our protagonist is and how they deal with everything. They know that when they get older, they won’t be prepared and aren't ready to enjoy real life. Again, they don't know what it means to be human. They don't know their place in the world. They know that someday, life will kick them in the butt and realize that being human isn't a bad thing after all...or is it?
Overall, this is a great philosophical experiment, even if it's short, and deserves a lot of attention. It tells us that being human might not be a bad thing after all. 5/5
Hello! I’m ApatheticPurple, but you can call me Purple. I saw this in the Green Room, and thought I’d check it out.
This started off as the anthem of the insomniac, and I immediately felt like I could relate to that. Seriously, if sleep is what makes you human, I may as well be an alien toaster from Planet X. Jokes aside, though, it quick spiralled into something way deeper, and as sad as it was, I absolutely loved it. The way you constantly bring this scenario back to the same question, “what makes us human?”, really put a unique lens on what we’re reading. After all, when criminals and abusers like this are outed in society, or even just in the story we’re reading, the first thing so may people say is, “that’s inhuman of them”. Likewise, we have that word, “inhumane”, that we throw around a lot. Yet these people are human, and the actions we describe as “inhumane” may not be unique to us, but they do objectively come from our species. Thus, is it that these people lose their humanity when they choose to commit these horrible actions, or are these actions, in there own way, something integral to humanity to begin with? All a very introspective sort of train of thought, which you really drove home with that final question: “Perhaps being human is wondering: What makes me human?”
Sorry, I’m probably getting lost in the sauce here, so let’s get back to an actual review. I honestly don’t know if this qualifies as poetry or a short story, or even a very creative style of essay, which is making it a little harder to analyze from a technical standard. However, I honestly can’t think of what I would recommend for improvement. The theme is consistent without coming off as repetitive, to me, and the underlying story about this cruel mother was written really well. I just love the questions and framing of each progression, asking if X point is what makes a human, or if it’s actually Y point, and why that is. ”Is that what makes a human human? Changing and adapting to whatever they are forced into?” That one actually made me stop and think, because what do humans do best but adapt?
All in all, I’d say this was really good, and I already like your style a lot. Nice job!
Thank you so much!