Things
by Ryan P. Kinney

I don’t have people. I have things.

I suppose that is not completely true.
As one of those “things” is so apt to say,
“It’s a shade of gray.”

There are exceptions to that rule.
As I, myself, am quite exceptional.
There are a chosen few I let in
And allow to peer into the darkness
And through my unblinking, unwavering eyes
Let the darkness stare back at them

However, for most people,
They are a thing to me
Something to be used, with a specific purpose and function
Whose value is not based on mutual respect
Atleast not more so than I give any of my personal belongings
Perhaps that is the core of the issue
I personify my inanimate accumulations
And dehumanize my sentient gatherings

What good can you do for me?
What good can you do for yourself,
That I can then, vicariously, take credit for?
And justify my use of you
While I put you on reserve for my future megalomaniac endeavors

Some philosopher in an old book I have long since forgotten
Once suggested that true altruism is not possible
That no matter how seemingly unselfish your motives were
There was always some selfish desire in all actions
Even if it was the need to feed on the “warm and fuzzies” of convincing yourself that you are a good person

Another of my “things” has also suggested that my view makes me a sociopath
I can agree with that
My conscience lacks a separation between the human and the inert
Most sociopaths have a certain charm
That makes them appear as if they care and are part of social, collective conscience
Which is often very thinly veiled,
Behind their complete disdain for any others

It’s not something that I want to be.
It’s just a realization that I am coming upon
I wish I was more human
I struggle against dehumanizing these mystifying creatures
But the years of my life, my decisions and actions, and mere circumstance
Has left me less and less desire to trust and care for less and less people

Now things…
Things I can control, warp, bend to my will
I can use things;
They have a reason for being
They are typically where I put them and only let me down when they break
And even then, they are usually easily replaced or subverted.
They don’t leave me, lie to me, or betray me
I won’t say that a thing has never broken my heart
Because, let’s face it,
I put more of a face on object than a person
But even the chips in my core from a seized engine or a shredded shirt
Do not leave half the **** that someone clawing their way out of the depths of my darkness,
That I have allowed them to nestle into, does

To be honest, I do not even know what a person is
I can define an object;
My senses give it form, function, and purpose
A person, however, is like a flowing river
While always the same in name
It is constantly changing, shifting, and flowing
Leaving me no reference point
No straws to grasp onto
If I cannot even understand my own ebbs and rapids
How can I even begin to know this thing that is a person?

No,
Better, or rather easier, that I freeze that river at a particular point
Or even simultaneously at multiple points
Then I can lift it, move it, have some indication with which to know what it is and what I can do with it
Then toss that piece back into the torrents, until I have need of it again

Now, if we really want to get down to it…
I have spent a large portion of my life in introspection
As a selfish being, I constantly try to figure out what and who I am
Do you know what I found out?

I’m not really a person either;
Just another thing.