What does it mean to be human? Does it mean you have two legs and two arms? Does it mean you can talk and understand the words of others? Perhaps it means that you can think for yourself and that you have free will to do as you please. Does being human mean that you have a soul - a spirit - inside of you? And it guides you as you go along through life? Do all of these things come together in one all encompassing idea of what it means to be human? Is that what they mean when they say "humanity"? Can you lose your human self? Can you find it again?

Some would probably say that being human means that you have the capability to fall in love, to put yourself aside and focus on the happiness of another.

If you were to ask me, I would have no idea what it means to be human. Most days, I sit alone in my small apartment, reading or writing, trying to forget that other people exist because the more I try to find humanity the more I realize that it is nowhere to be found. Turn on the news, and all you see is another child found dead or another tragic car crash because a driver was too busy texting to notice a stop sign. You walk around outside, and you see the homeless on every corner, looking at you with blank eyes as they stand and shiver in the growing cold. No, humanity is a dying idea, perhaps even a myth. Most people in this world will not show you any kindness or give you any hope. Most people will either completely ignore you or try to hurt you.

Moving to New York was the first thing I had ever done for myself. I had left behind the only place that I'd ever known to come to the city. Of course, it wasn't really hard to leave, because the only place I'd ever known really wasn't worth knowing. I'd left behind all the pieces of a life that I had hated. I'd left a job that made me miserable, I'd left people who I'd let poison my life for far too long, and to top it all off, I'd left a part of myself behind: the part that cared what other people thought and that was always trying so hard to be someone else in order to survive.

Deep down, I knew I was running away. I was running from all the people who had let me down and hurt me. I was running from my own weaknesses and mistakes. But let me tell you, running seemed a hell of a lot better than staying and pretending I was happy. I'd had no friends to keep me from going, no job that I loved, or house that felt like home. I had saved my money, eating nothing but cup-o-noodle for months. I had found a small apartment, and then I took the first job that I could find.

A few months into my new life, I was surprised to find that I was actually beginning to feel like myself, if I even knew what that felt like in the first place. I'd never been so clear minded, so hopeful. The restless side of myself was finally at peace. Unlike my hometown, every day I could walk out my front door and find something new and interesting to see or try. Maybe it was a new place to eat or a new store that I hadn't explored, but the city was an ever growing wonderland compared to what I was used to.

After work I would either go home and relax in my tiny (but cheap) apartment and enjoy whatever book I had picked up from the store the day before. And if I got bored, I would grab a subway to the center of town and just wander. I felt faceless and invisible, traveling through the hordes of people visiting or rushing to work, not paying any mind to me. Every once in a while someone would smile my way or a young guy would whistle as I went by. Those moments brought me back to reality, reminding me I wasn't in fact invisible, that I was real, but it would only last until I vanished around a corner or into a group of strangers as I continued on my way.

It was this habit of mine, walking and thinking so deeply that I would almost run into a wall at times, that got me into trouble.