Walking Practice

by Dolki Min

Happiness is an incredibly rare and dangerous emotion. I’m someone who can’t bear the fall from happiness to despair. I need a safety net to prepare for it since the higher I climb, the greater my injuries will be when I fall. That’s what’s so frightening. You never know when an iron mace will beat you out of your drunken happiness, casting you into hell. Am I incapable of fully enjoying even the smallest moments of happiness? As soon as I’m happy, I start having ominous thoughts of ruining that happiness.

For them, life is so boring that if someone doesn’t walk with ease, taking steady steps on two healthy legs of the same length, they violently overreact as if they were waiting for it. I think their bar for reactions is pretty low. They can’t wait to ogle a monster. Without monsters, how would they withstand the unrelenting futility of their days?

Why can’t I blend in naturally with groups of humans? Won’t someone kindly share the secret? Can I become a human and receive love? Is that too much to ask for? Ah, it’s fine now. Please, don’t worry about it. Pay it no mind.

And if you are struck by a bout of conscience, never fear! For conscience quickly crumbles with repeated evil deeds. Time solves all. An unpredictable murder with seemingly no time to feel pain conceals the incontrovertible fact that the victim fears death, that they are an animal whose life is powered by that fear. It reduces the meaning of death.

My burden decreases when I highlight the differences between me and them. If they were the same as me, I couldn’t eat them. And even if they were like me, if I were to believe that I am fundamentally on a different level, I could devour them without a second thought. The moment that belief breaks . . . I have trouble eating, or I throw up.

Sometimes I have so much time it s i c k e n s me. Please take up my time! Not my body, b u t m y t i m e , time together with me. S t e a l a s m u c h a s y o u l i k e . Just a moment is fine too. It’s

That’s why, when I was first learning to walk like a human, I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out the difference between men and women. In my eyes, all humans looked exactly the same. I thought that things that look alike move alike. To put it a different way, I wondered how it was even possible to divide something with so many visible variants into just two groups.

I’ve invested close to ten years of my time figuring out what exactly their criteria are. My conclusion is that there are no such criteria.

To act the part of a woman, you’ve got to memorize a hefty script. Men should do the opposite. Just don’t act like a woman.

Do I exist in the same physical space as other people? Can I really seek joy and pleasure together with them? Why does the path become narrower the further I walk down it? Why is every place I go to a cliff? Self-pity pins me down like a boulder, and I struggle with it

Being a mess is totally different from knowing you’re a mess.

Can you understand the agony of hating humans so much but shoving that hatred aside to look just like one? The desire to become a member of society always overpowers the shame of being embraced by their system.

That’s right, hurry up and use me . . . I won’t forget to make you pay for it.