Who is Miss X?

     Miss X is a human, meaning she has a spirit and a soul.  Miss X is a misanthrope, meaning she hates all things human.  She is a female who hates females and femininity.  She is part of a family that she both loves and dislikes at times.  She is part of a culture that she despises.  She has an ideal that she consistently fails to live up to.  She is proud of herself.  She hates herself.  Sometimes, she abuses her body, but mostly she abuses her spirit and soul. 

     Miss X doesn't know what she knows but she's sure that she knows it.  She has an opinion, and that opinion is right, and that opinion will stand, come rain or come shine, "and she never gives up, and she never gives in, she just changes her mind." 

     Miss X is a legion.  She is a thousand different characters fighting and striving to have their story told.  And sometimes she becomes them, and sometimes she gets sick of them, throws a pillow over the lot, and watches TV to numb her mind.  And what a raving beast that mind is.  It suffers the slings and arrows; the tranquilizer darts with mighty throws of torrential rage, and then simply goes to sleep. 

     Her mind has been slumbering for some time now.  It dreams as it slumbers, but like most dreams, it just throws off bits and pieces of intelligent rubbish, whispering so softly that it is not heard above the blaring noise of everyday life. 

     She dreams, too.  She dreams wild, unimaginable things.  She strains at her dreams, like a dog on a leash, bearing its teeth and closing its eyes as it tries to grasp that piece of meat just beyond its reach.  They disturb her when they come, and they terrify her when they do not come. 

     She loves to laugh and skip and play, she toils and strives and sinks away.  She grins, she cries, and emotion fills her eyes.  That is what governs her.  She is the law of paradox.  Since everything about her contradicts who she is, she cannot see beyond the contradiction. 

     Oh, did I mention that she sees things that no one else sees?  Living things that flit and fly just beyond sight.  These things are very real to her, except for the times when they seem unreal.  They are magical beings of nature, and while to any psychologist or sane, rational human, they may be the indication of some harmful neurosis, her life is harmed far more when she doesn't see them. 

     Who is Miss X?  She could very well be any of you, but she isn't.  She's unique, just like you.  I am a man trained in the mysteries of psychology, but I describe her in distinctly non-psychological terms.  You see, we all share a common malady with dear Miss X.  We suffer from the human condition, that is, being human.  What does it mean to be human?  Miss X might tell you it means you ask stupid questions like that one.  Miss X might say a great many things, depending on what mood she happens to be in.  Is suffering itself the human condition?  If so, animals, plants, and the entire universe suffers from the human condition as it spirals ever downward into decay.  God even suffers.  Anything that has physical form suffers.  Humans, though, suffer even when their bodies are very comfortable.  Miss X suffers less when she is NOT comfortable.  She abuses her body because it temporarily dulls the pain of her mind. 

     Miss X is a poet who lacks rhyme or reason.  She is a non-instrumental musician.  While she may not be genuine, she is a genius.  She is a little girl who has just discovered the playground.  She loves the swing for the highs and hates it for the lows when her feet drag the ground, and her pure little white dress is soiled by the dust.  She loves to climb to the pinnacle of the slide, take the fast and thrilling ride to the bottom when the fun suddenly comes to an end.  Occasionally she sits on the seesaw, but no one will ride it with her.  She is an aged woman, an octogenarian who sits singing softly "Hush little baby, don't say a word, papas gonna buy you a mocking bird..." as the tears trickle from her moist eyes. 

     So anyway, who is Miss X?  That was my official diagnosis. She, of course, will disagree with some, agree with some, and find the whole thing to be a poppycock.  But what does she know?  More importantly, why should you care who Miss X is?  Because you share a planet with her and her brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, and all her many parents.  The circle extends ever outward until the ripples touch you.  Perhaps we should ban together and kick her out of the pool.  Or maybe, just maybe, we can look beyond ourselves and ask our neighbors in the world "Who are you?"  Because if we, who are the brothers and sisters of Miss X, do not care about her or her family, who the heck will?