For every infinitely small moment of human existence a neuron fires, prompting the orchestrated movement of a colony, a mashed-up being, an amalgamation of biology and earth. For every moment, a cell of its divides, replicating a set of genetic information that does not belong to itself. It is a length of dispensible macromolecule that pervades the entire structure like burrowing insects. When DNA condenses, the chromatids it forms look like bugs. The human karyotype is an exterminator's identification chart.
From the very single second that the human being had any semblance of physical presence in this universe, it was doomed to lead a flawed life. Its existence was determined by a coin toss of Mendelian genetics spitting in the face of any higher power. Every movement the human soul made from then on was futile. The human identity is nothing but the lack of a whole genome. The human locus has been inherently misplaced in a messy mechanism of blind self-preservation.
The only thing wrong with the being is a faulty biological instrumentation, a messy net of nitrogen and sugar built from millenia of spaghetti code, always just one step off from catastrophic failure. The error is small, the substance responsible unpercievable via the human eye. But one knows that it spread like a disease with human growth, and every cell now holds its own copy. Cancer can only be treated as a concentrated mass, collectively killed. To cure one's self would be to die. So the human must live a life defiant of death. The human identity is an acceptance of a diseased persistance.