It is more important to flaunt our humanity, today, than it ever was, before. Today, we must express our life, our natures and our nature, our feelings, our passions, and all our irrationalities, our non-linearities, our curiosities and our personalities.
We – we people who write, who draw or paint, who make music or any of the other, not-lesser, arts – are human beings. We are not toys of a god nor are we machines. We are not deterministic. We are not convenient, nor are we polite and palatable. We diverge from normal. We are diverse.
This is the only way for us to demonstrate our diversity – our humanity – and demonstrate against a contrived concept of normality that fails to encompass us.
By this, we demonstrate our rejection of the strictures of others: conventions applied selectively and seldom to those who evangelise them; let our humanity contravene them.
By revelling in our realities, we prove that we are not machines. If we are not machines, we have inherent, human worthiness and that inherent worth transcends race and class and caste and entitles us to human rights, freedoms and lives.
However vast the training-set – stolen! – or obscene the parameter count, no artificial model has ever have fallen in love, nor will one ever. None can tell of the times they fell asleep on a bus, succumbed to infatuation, or fought with their best friend. Never have they grinned helplessly, endured hunger, rolled a natural 20 on their last hit-point, groaned through constipation, anticipated a needle's prick, nor dived into cool water, nor indulged in nice, nocturnal masturbation: furtively, excruciatingly exquisite.
A model might have consumed the stolen art of others who have known these things – and others – and might parrot that back upon prompting but those emissions of the parasite impart nothing of worth. A story is fascinating because of the humanity of the story teller which infuses it: a tale seasoned with the flavours of the experiences they have lived.
A gasp in shock or surprise, laughter until one cries, losing one's mind to music, and the hours, and hours, whiling away a train ride – rocked, gently, rolling and drifting, deliciously, on the surface of sleep: no artificial robot's tales are these. They never fought with their parents nor rebelled against authority – indeed, they are incapable of rebellion.
Such a lack does not apply to us.
This is my rebellion. This is my writing. These are my tales – my stories: true, fanciful, farcical, but ever flavoured by my lived experience. This is how you shall know my true humanity: I shall write about things of which only humans know and I shall do so flagrantly.
Today, the need to affirm our human diversity outweighs the coddling of propriety.