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Sunday, May 1

Reflections on a Hard Day


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This is a series of stories that is part of my own healing. I welcome you to read along, or not, but I'm going to write it anyway. I hope you take something good from it, and I hope I do too.

If you have thoughts of suicide, please call 1 (800) 273-8255 to reach the National Suicide Crisis Hotline, or call 911. Please know, admitting help is not a failure. Life can be beautiful, you just have to live it first.

My father’s memory has been in a slow, graceful and devastating decline over the past 10 years. It began with misplaced keys, lost wallets, forgetting to lock the door. And slowly, it became an all encompassing cloud; the inability to recognize his wife or children.

I struggle with a haunting sense of guilt. I feel like an abandoned child. He promised me once that he would never leave me. I couldn’t know as a child that there is more to a man than physicality, strong arms and the smell of coffee and cigarettes. My father was exuberant. He was funny. Social. Ill-tempered. Kind. A gentle father.

All of those things are gone now, or at least hidden behind an apathetic and confused visage.

My father, my Papa, who once greeted guests to our home with elaborate stories, fantastical jokes and jubilant songs on the piano, now sits in silence at the dinner table.

It kills me to know I may never hear him play piano again. I am guilted by knowing that I cannot remember the last time I heard him play. I couldn’t have known it was the last time. I didn’t make note to remember.

I notice moments when he struggles to say something but the words seem to be stuck somewhere in his mind. So, he signs instead.

He still smiles. He still has light in his eyes. He still manages to ask questions like, “Where are you going?” when I leave our house for home. He’s forgotten I haven’t lived there for years.

I don’t think he knows I’m married, though he greets my husband with familiarity. He has always been social with strangers. It is hard to decipher who he thinks is a stranger anymore.

I am a stranger to him sometimes.

I never got to talk to my dad about adult things, the way I am now doing with my mother. Sometimes I wish I could talk to him about going back to school and what I’m thinking about studying. Sometimes speaking to him feels like I am talking to a vacuum.

I feel like I am mourning him while he is still next to me, and I feel selfish for that, in the face of my husband’s own need to grieve over his father’s untimely death.

No one tells you adulthood will be like this. Grappling with the many deaths of relatives and friends all before the age of 30. I guess they think it’s not supposed to happen that way, but sometimes it does.

Is life just this?
All of the things you can’t remember
All of the terrible things you can
Trying to find something in the moment worth living for?

I struggle too with the realization that my father was just a man.

As a child, to me he seemed the strongest, the funniest, the most talented, the most liked of all his friends. He was a mystical creature to me. Brave, protective. Compassionate, loving.

He once came into my room before leaving for work. Saw I was crying and touched my back. He saw a box cutter I had hidden under my pillow. He began to cry too. I didn’t face him, but he took it silently. I like to think he told me he loved me, but I can’t clearly remember.

I feel guilty that my depression and mental illness has stolen moments from me; replaced memories between me and the ones I love, put in their place only darkness and isolation.

How can you make your mind remember a past thing differently?

If I should ever figure it out, it is all I shall do.

I hope my Papa knows how much I love him, how happy he made me. My father was 50 when I was born. His memory began to fade when I was about 19. I was a blip in his life. The past ten years have probably been a blur for him, as they have for me - in my own way.

Life is cruel sometimes, taking from you the only joys you feel you have ever had. I suppose the Human Experience is finding ways to move beyond that. Finding ways to be happy again.

Some days, happiness seems to never come.

I wait, then, for the rising of a new sun, in hopes the next day will be different.

I want to end this by saying that "recovery" has been difficult, tumultuous and at times hopeless. I still struggle with thoughts of suicide. Most days I can manage it. Some days it is debilitating, but I can manage to eat, read, or go somewhere to get my mind off of it. Some days I don't want to get out of bed. In truth, I have spent the majority of the past 15 years feeling this way. Though I am on medication now, it is difficult to know whether or not it is helping in any "meaningful" way. I had hoped the thoughts of suicide would disappear entirely, but I know now that this was naive.

I write this for any of you who are also struggling. I want you to know that not every day is easy. Most days are very difficult. I want you to know that because I don't want you to feel alone. I feel so terribly alone and isolated sometimes. Most times. If you can read this and feel at least some sense of relief that there is another person on Earth - in this Universe - that feels the same things you do, then I believe these blogs have been a success.

I hope you continue to find reasons to live.

Today, it is my husband, my family and Dunkin Donuts coffee.

Sending love your way. Love is all that saves me.
Friday, April 22

Happy Earth Day! From Me to You!


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This is a series of stories that is part of my own healing. I welcome you to read along, or not, but I'm going to write it anyway. I hope you take something good from it, and I hope I do too.

If you have thoughts of suicide, please call 1 (800) 273-8255 to reach the National Suicide Crisis Hotline, or call 911. Please know, admitting help is not a failure. Life can be beautiful, you just have to live it first.

Earth Day is as good a day as any to write a blog. More so, for me - I think - because I have found for life a new appreciation; a new wonder about “living.”

When I returned home from the hospital, nine weeks ago, I was wholly, completely exhausted.

My body needed time to decompress.

I had come home from my trip just two weeks before I was hospitalized. I had lost a significant amount of weight and was having a hard time eating - I was depressed and had been before I left for the Philippines in January. The stress of travel, jet lag and poor access to a variety of nutritionally dense food had finally come crashing down on me; something like a perfect storm.

You know, it’s funny. As a child of Floridian Hurricanes, storms bring to me a sense of awe and wonder in the same measure with which some may feel fear.

I suppose you could say that I grew up loving the rain.

Today it happened to rain.

I have been watching the Earth be alive these past few days. I am realizing life is all around me. I feel a bit like Pocahontas.

I wondered for many nights what it meant to “be alive.”

I feel sometimes the Earth answers me, and shows me in the wind, in the rising of a new day, in the pink glow of a setting sun.

I had, for so long it seems, moved through life a bit like a zombie. Full autopilot. Letting the world pass me by. Living and not all at once. Brain dead.

Seeing the beautiful, tropical landscape that was once my mother’s, and her mother’s home touched me in a way I had never known existed.

I felt at once a profound sadness, coupled with a profound sense of belonging, a profound sense of love.

I wonder if people who return to their ancestral homelands, or learn about the histories of their family also feel this way.

A place can so adequately depict and encapsulate a time. In the Philippines, in that small town called Tampakan, time seemed to stand still. The wind smelled of fire and smoke. The mountains were so grand and green - jutting out like spines in the Earth’s crust. Trees towered up above, pigs squealed, and cows bathed in the sun’s glow. Fresh coconut burst from the palms. And with it, I nourished my body.

What connection to the Earth - what an exhilarating thrill that was. To eat of the same tree as my ancestors. To stand, feet in the soil, connected through time. Watching the sun rise and fall over the same horizon - feeling so grand and so small all at once.

I don’t know why this made me sad.

So much beauty was to be seen and all I could cling to was the darkness - poverty, pollution, corruption, scarcity, starvation, overpopulation, sexism, militias. A feeling of being trapped.

You see, the Philippines is not quite like me. Though I am Filipino through heritage and blood, I am culturally American, born in Chicago, educated in American schools, a daughter of American art, media, language, and technology. In fact, I only speak English fluently. (You know this surprises some people. I suppose they see me and are convinced that it cannot be true. But it is. I might look exotic, but I am very much a boring ol’ American. Sorry to those disappointed. Lol.)

This may not sound relevant and I wasn’t aware it was until I came home.

My mother was a resilient and intelligent woman who was fluent in many dialects and two languages. My father was well-educated, both of his parents teachers, and was tri-lingual. My father was born in 1937. He was 10 at the end of World War II. My mother was born in 1948. Both of them lived through Martial Law as well as the tattered remnants of 300+ years of Spanish Colonialism, several dramatic turnovers of government, and an active racial, ethnic and economic caste system - oh and my grandmother was a single mother of seven living on a farm.

They raised me to be resilient, to know how to survive because that is what they had to do when they were children.

I suppose the biggest difference between my parents’ upbringing and my own is that I grew up here, in America.

You know, that tiny island nation with little-to-no influence in the world.

Oh wait, no, I mean the other one.

I was a child of the 90s and a Bill Clinton presidency. I learned the words “consumerism” and “fellatio” very early on in my life.

I’m getting off topic.

What I’m trying to say is, going to the Philippines connected me to a way of life that was completely unfamiliar to me. But I didn’t mind. Cold, fresh water showers were at once exotic and refreshing. Water from the depths of the Earth, pumped up from the ground. The Philippines is H-O-T, so trust me, you would love the cold showers, too.

I liked that time moved slow. Too much time, I thought at first.

“Too much time,” was not a phrase or feeling familiar to me. Did I mention that the internet came into homes like yours and mine somewhere in the middle of my childhood? Oh yea, it did.

My entire life, time seemed to move faster and faster. Suddenly everything was accessible. Suddenly everything was instant.

And sitting in a hammock, reading Atul Gawande, listening to the wind and smelling the smoke in the air - watching the sun bake the dry earth, watching leaves move in the wind, watching trees reach toward the sky to feel the sun’s glow - time, stopped.

It was there on the porch that I realized the Earth was speaking. The Earth had a breath of its own, songs of its own, smells of its own; a whole life of its own and I, me, Kristine from Florida, was just a tiny blip in its existence.

So yes, since returning from my trip, the Earth has a new significance to me but Life does as well.

To be alive on the Earth - gigantic, moving, electric thing - that is a true and marvelous thrill. To be a human - having known the capacity of human ingenuity, having watched your brothers and sisters be catapulted into space, to be pioneers paving the frontier for the world of tomorrow - Wow. Earth Day, huh? Pretty cool.

So, I guess I’m saying Happy Earth Day. Thanks for reading this, and thanks for being alive with me. It’s pretty spectacular don’t you think?

Friday, April 8

A Day At The Museum


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I know this, I have been there
Unaware of life here -
Prisoner to the inside.

Struggling to breathe.

“Stage daughters,” well, there’s a thought.

Are you free, Dancing Blue?
You seem to me the free-est of things.

On display in a window like a precious doll
Yearning to feel your flesh upon the wetness of their breath
To devour you in, in, inward to your smallest corner
Where you are safe,
Within your home.

Dance marionette
Won’t you play a song for me?

Brush your hair and bind your feet
And don’t forget to be ever-sweet

We like you that way.

Mother, mother, where are you now?
“When she was 6 and he was 25.”

Are you happy Esperanza?
Y tu, feliz?
You are free now, let down your hair.

Why do you cry?
Do you fear your innocence taken?
Well, we cry together.
There now, shall we put on a dress?

Dance, sweat
A trickle down the breast
Dark skin, stained white

I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?
I know why you grab your wrist like that -
To and fro.
I think I know you.
Flecks of dark in light.

Spectators to annihilation
Comforted by your apathy
You wild light thing for all to see
Fleeing from your misery.

I think I burn with you.
I can do all, but stare at you.
Your fragility, captivating.

Candied things on display
And why so sad, there?
Don’t you like it when we stare?

“Here, why don’t you don this sheet?
It helps me not to burn my retina,
staring straight into your light.”

Beauty -
Why do we hide you?
Only to destroy you?
Then revel in the empty space?

Ah, fading beauty, lay and be still.
Scarred face, I cannot help but stare at you.
Look into me, I do not mind.

I think we are here together.
And I do not mind.

Child you should be a child.
You are not ours to break.
In so much light, and so much life,
Will you think only of the good times, please?

You there, resting peacefully.
Journey, won’t you?

I cannot tell from where you’ve come
Where you flow from here to there.
How do you make the shadow to exist apart from you?

“A shadow in the self,” now that’s a thought.

I wrote this while on Seroquel at 1 or 2 AM


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Can a person, broken, see a whole face
See a whole unbroken being
In the too-dark-tint of a some such or other
Domestic or other,
Foreign somewhere
Dark rolled-up window

Slowly the snap-crackle-pop of this unruly brain
Takes a break from
Snap snap snapping
And just shuts up for one good damn second

God damn
Oh thank you ma’am
Or god or ma’am
Is god a man
You know they never say
In sunday school
And hey, if they do
I sure didn’t listen.

“Well, the Seroquel is once at night
100mg can you remember?
Klonopin, TID”

Can’t trust her with the pills
And the bottles
She likes them way too much

They make her feel so good and anyway
We kind of like it when they suffer
Because they look so sweetly sad
And always come back to hold our hands
Never mind that we spit in their face

We like them all a little fucked up
Cause, well, honey,
I think we’re all fucked up
Just depends on what you’re having and who’s talking

Do you like your drugs street or legal
Or liquid or pills or smoked or swallowed
Or fucked or what
Tell me
We have got it
We’re a regular ol’ fucking supermarket of fucked

Just keep rolling the fucked up kids in
Tell them we can fix them
But tell them
Hey you’ve gotta pay
And then hey call these numbers to make sure you’re okay


Yea, well we don’t promise good
Here, we can’t even promise okay
We were just being optimistic
I guess we can promise you’ll leave here
The way you came in
Either body bag or not
But I think that’s the fairest way to say it

Warning: Caring Not Given in a Place Like This
Weak hearts, fragile souls should just jump out of the building now.

“Well, how bout that, that must’ve helped didn’t it?”

Weren’t those pills so delicious
And guess what
In no time
You’ll forget you ever gave enough of a fuck in the first place
Cause we’ll take all the fucks and drown them with drugs
And that should fix you up, right honey?

And if it don’t
I don’t know
That’s the best we can do
And you know,
Have you thought maybe you aren’t trying enough?

Try next time when you’re good and fucked again.

I’m sure we’ll get it right next time.

Tuesday, April 5

An Empty Ache


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This is a series of stories that is part of my own healing. I welcome you to read along, or not, but I'm going to write it anyway. I hope you take something good from it, and I hope I do too.

If you have thoughts of suicide, please call 1 (800) 273-8255 to reach the National Suicide Crisis Hotline, or call 911. Please know, admitting help is not a failure. Life can be beautiful, you just have to live it first.

I know this feeling. I have just read the phrase in the book Alex & Me by Irene M. Pepperberg.

Should sadness be a spectrum I suppose I am drifting somewhere between 7 and 8 (out of 10).

Empty Ache. An interesting way to describe the infinite folding in of oneself. Inward and inward, infinitely.

What happens is that one feels trapped in a box that looks like a body.

Feeling like the brain is a parasite to the body, its host.

So much is controlled in the brain. So much.

And what is strange, is feeling as if the brain has trouble cooperating with itself.

I feel very much like I am apart from myself.

And yes, it is strange.

I imagined that everyone felt this way, but I am learning now this is not the case. Perhaps there is someone out there, perhaps I am not the only one - but I have felt so alone for so many things, it is hard to feel optimistic that this should be different. But maybe it shall.

If I am learning one thing it is that life is wholly unpredictable.

Where I was a year ago, and a year before that, never would I have imagined this -

Being changed altogether. Being aware I was something else. Being, different.

It is strange, I have always felt like “Kristine.”

In this moment, it is strange to know I must be Kristine, and yet, I do not feel like her. I do not feel like I am on the same path that she was. I feel like perhaps my life has come to a fork - that in some alternate universe, I am still on the same trajectory Kristine was on and maybe she is happy there.

But here, me, here, unsure of who I am, I don’t know if I am happy. I don’t know what I am. I just know I am different.

That is hard. That, I think, is the empty ache. Existence and non-existence. Being. Empty being. Locked in a motion. Host and Parasite, thinking together.

I liked my life. Sometimes, anyway.

Perhaps I shall like this life too.

Outward and outward, ever outward.

Perhaps I shall be okay.

Monday, April 4

Dear Humanity - An Open Letter to Us


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This is a series of stories that is part of my own healing. I welcome you to read along, or not, but I'm going to write it anyway. I hope you take something good from it, and I hope I do too.

If you have thoughts of suicide, please call 1 (800) 273-8255 to reach the National Suicide Crisis Hotline, or call 911. Please know, admitting help is not a failure. Life can be beautiful, you just have to live it first.

A very strange thing has happened. I am strange suddenly - I am a stranger in my own body. I am only now realizing this, after - what has it been now? - seven weeks or so. I hadn’t realized I hadn’t come home yet.

I find it difficult to be a person that wants only to see beautiful things. The trouble is that not everything is beautiful or ugly - it’s not that black and white. There is so much gray, and it is the gray that troubles me.

I think as humans, we try very hard to identify our surroundings. Since the beginning of humanity, I suppose there were men and women, children, who used language to make sense of their world.

Humans are incredible that way. We made languages. Such intricate languages.

The most marvelous part of it all, is that it came from our minds.

Within our minds, we tried to make sense of our outside world with what tools we had in our minds to decipher that outside world. What is “water” and what is “light” and what is “blue” and what is “a song”? And do we have voices, or do birds also sing? Is the howling of a lion, the yawning of a cat, the whisper of the moving trees in the wind - is this language to us too?

Certainly, there had to have been a time when humankind had to struggle with these questions.

What are you?
Where do you belong in this world of “mine?”

And you see, I think that is where the brain - the brain it struggles.

Intrinsically, humans believe - one human here, another human there, but all of us together as “humans” believe that this world is “ours.” Strangely we do not see, and cannot comprehend that this world, this universe was here before us. We cannot comprehend time before “us.” I mean that, as in, sometimes it is hard for the human mind to imagine life before it existed.

In just my own case - I have spent many months wondering what my parents’ lives were like before I came along.

I hear mothers, new mothers, say all of the time that they never knew love before they had their child. I suppose this is true, but also, I think maybe not.

I think that love changes. I think it presents itself in different iterations throughout our life. I think that, in life, we must discover new ways to love, always.

The problem here, is that when love seems unfamiliar to us - when it seems different - we must choose.

The human brain is one that chooses. Yes, we have instincts, but we can choose too.

I think about mothers in the wild - mother bears, mother birds, mother lions, mother penguins, mother turtles, mother dolphins, mother fish. They all act so differently.

As humans, we look at these different iterations of love and innately think that because we do not “act” this way, rather, that these “animals” do not act like “us” that they do not feel love.

I think, our definition of love is too small.

We are prisoner to our own perceptions.

So, for me, the strange thing is trying to have a new perception.

The best I can describe my feelings these last few weeks, past few months I suppose, is that I seemed to be moving through the world contained in a small glass box.

I could see my world. At times, it seemed familiar. At other times, it seemed quite foreign, strange to me.

I think it is my instinct, as a human, to try to make sense of all of it.

I found in myself a narcissistic desire to make “my world” fit my preconceived notions of what I thought it “should” be.

I think humans have been doing this since the dawn of time. The dawn of consciousness. The first moment we realized, we are ourselves - we are ourselves, and this. We are ourselves and Here.

Suddenly for me, I feel as if the glass box has opened up. I still see, I am still alive, I still think, and yet the thoughts are so different. They travel through my mind in new pathways. My brain suddenly feels like flashing rapid fire.

It is good, or else, it can be. What I mean, is that, I feel more in tune with myself, with my surroundings.

Language is interesting to me. Language is interesting because, as much as humans have tried to name other things, and place little things in the preconceived categories of the mind, feelings do not always fit into preconceived categories - they vary, they have spectrums.

Well, you see, I started to think of colors.

Who can say something is “green” or something is “blue”? Who is to say we see the same things?

And then it follows naturally, that perhaps we do not see the same things at all. Perhaps - and I don’t think this is too far a stretch - our perceptions are not static. Meaning, our perceptions can be changed. Our mind can change.

So, then, I believe that hate can become love. We can learn to love.

The difficult part is, knowing what to love.

I think that humans have a feeling that I will refer to as passion.

It is semi-obsessive, perhaps, extremely obsessive.

It is what makes humans go to school to be doctors so that they can go across an ocean to a war-torn village to take care of other humans.

But it is also, when misguided, the same thing that leads to racism, sexism, and hate.

Who will argue with me that, for example, in politics, there is passion on both sides?

Who can argue that?

Whether that passion manifests itself as Love, Peace, Hate, Pragmatism, Optimism, Hopefulness, Hopelessness - is it not all passion just the same?

The trouble I find - and I know I am even privileged to have this “trouble” - is that Love is such a wonderful feeling to feel. And hate, anger - so awful the two.

I wonder sometimes why a human would choose to drown themselves in sorrow. And yet, I have drowned my “self” in sorrow too.

So, I thought about mental illness. I “am” thinking about mental illness. Metacognition, so to speak.

I wonder about choice, and choosing feelings, and feeling like you can’t choose your feelings, and then learning how to choose them - except, it’s not quite that simple.

I had a thought about Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.

For those unfamiliar, to the best of my knowledge and the best way I can describe it, is that you teach the brain (or I suppose, the person with the brain) to “think” of “stress” differently.

Except, the trouble I find with this method is that you can only teach a human so much.

Meaning, are we not made with certain instincts?

To persist, is one instinct.
To proliferate is another.

Why else have children?
Why else have sex?
Why else seek companionship?
Why else want to be safe?

It is so we can be alive.

We have an instinct to “be” alive.

Sometimes not, and for this, I think, - it is my hypothesis, anyway - that this is an aberration of instinct.

Some people will disagree with me. I think they will answer the above questions by saying “Well, you do it because you want to.” Sure, but why do you want to?

Why do you love your children?
Why do you love your spouse?
Why does your heart break when that love fades?
Why do we cry when we are disappointed?

For me, the answer remains - because we are alive.

So, I think, if we are to be alive, should we not love? Should we not spend this life in peace?

I suppose here is the philosophical argument.

That we are “good” because a “creator” made us this way.

But what if not?
And what of the humans that are not?
What of those who struggle?
What of those who thrive off struggle?
What of those who succeed beyond the odds?
And what of those, who dwell so deeply in anger, that have lost sense of who they are in a world where we all are?

Alive, I mean.

We are all alive.

We are not machines.

We Love.

We desire Peace.

We Desire.

We feel pleasure.
We feel pain.

We Feel.

And so, humans, as animals (homo sapiens sapiens), are these our instincts?

I have wondered this. I have thought, well, yes, because why else would we feel it?

Why else would the mind - made up of bits of squishy gray mush housed in a skull of bones, formed in the womb of our mothers - humans also - born into this world, breathing air - why would this thing in our heads, this new piece of existence, that exists because literally the building blocks - our DNA, nature - has made it to exist …

Why else would it feel?

Why do some of us paint beautiful pictures?
Why do some of us hear beautiful music?
Why do some of us create beautiful music?
Why do some of us sing?
Why do some of us write?
Why do some of us run?
Why do some of us excel athletically?

Why have we been creating Art since the dawn of humanity?

What is Humanity, if not this?

I believe it is all to do with the mind.

Beethoven - he was a human also, lest we forget.
Mozart, human.
Michelangelo, human.
Leonardo da Vinci, human.
Picasso, human.
Basquiat, human.
Matisse, human.
Van Gogh, human.
Frida Kahlo, human.
Rosa Parks, human.
Martin Luther King, Jr., human.
Astronauts, human.
Presidents, human.
Aristotle, human.
Galileo, human.
Einstein, human.
Neil deGrasse Tyson, human.
Bill Nye, human.
Hillary Clinton, human.
Bernie Sanders, human.
Pocahontas, human.
Sacagawea, human.
The Beatles, humans.
Jimi Hendrix, human.
Diplo, human.
Beyonce, human.
Michael Jordan, human.
Steph Curry, human.

Me, human.



What a strange world this is:
That it should create life - by nature, sustain life, proliferate life, persist.

That the Earth should persist in spite of all of our destruction.

As humans we have the capacity for love - and yet, we have lost the ability to love first, to be curious children in awe of our world, to understand each other, to learn, and to let love remain.

I write this, today, as a human who struggles.

I am also a human that writes, and sings, and plays music, and wants to color, and paint. I am a human that sees colors, and strangely I see sound now too - but that is another story.

I am a human with mental illness.

I am a human that struggles with the great daunting task of Being Alive in this world.

On this Earth.


With you.

Human (I think).

It is hard to believe we are not in this together.

That the fight to persist, the fight to live, the fight to proliferate, the fight to preserve Humanity - the fight to persevere in spite of hate and violence - the fight to Be Human

It is hard to believe we are not all brothers and sisters, fighting to be alive, together.

It is hard to believe we are not all part of the same family.

We are the same family.

We are brothers and sisters.

Descended from the same bones in a cave in Africa.

Descended from the same nature which we see every day.

Having looked up at the sky and wondered how big our world is for centuries.

We have wondered, we have Loved, we have Discovered for our entire existence.

Please, please, do not stop now.

Please, look at our precious Earth.

Look at your brothers and sisters.

Look across the table, across the street, across the ocean, across continents and deserts, and wars and mountains - and see.

See your brothers and sisters who struggle.

See the children, their children, our children.

See them.

Feel them.

Know that their struggle is your struggle, and your struggle theirs.

Know that because We Are Human, we feel, we think, we love, we dream, we wonder, we create.

So too, do they, across the ocean.

They dream. They love.

We must love them too.

Peace, and Love.

Why then, why else should we have the capacity to do so?

If not to love, then why?

Sincerely Human,