Some women are untamable. Some are out of reach. And there are others who are unavailable. I consider myself to be under the realm of the unconsumable.

I don’t care to be relatable. Nor does being digestible to most people interest me. The person I am and the person who I want to be is one entirely swallowed by my own gaze.

To be understood is a beautiful thing, but even after I’m decoded, the gulf between you and I reveals itself. No amount of closeness will tear myself away from my own clutches.

A lot of people pay lip service to admiring independent women but when you actually encounter one who lives entirely by her own decrees and doesn’t pay much mind to your mode of being aside from passive acknowledgement? This goes beyond independence and empowerment and leans toward a schizoid detachment from conventional human mores.

I acknowledge our interdependence as a species, one where I’m not exempt from, and like everyone else, I have needs and I want to be loved and to love. But there’s always going to be an unremitting sense of alienation from others and I’m fine with that. Because you know what? At this point in my life, I don’t put much stock into what other people value and admire since a lot of them value and admire stupid and reprehensible things.

The purpose of this piece is not to brag or to bring to light how special I am. Ironically, there are more people like me out there, just as unconsumable if not more so in some regards. There are some people out there who refused to be subsumed under the wellspring of humanity. They deny its fruits and nourishment in order to venture into the inhuman and alien. Some are even labeled as monsters but I’d argue that the root of monstrosity stems from a deep humanity – it originates from people’s deep attachments, their traumas, their loyalties, their undying love, their desire to fit in and survive. Their monstrousness is so deeply human that it’s banal.