And what are you?
Look at your hands.
You’re dying.
Your shell is cracking and thinning.
The purple return vessels are coming to the surface, showing the re-route of depleted blood.
What are you?
A bag of salt water and plasma churning around nerves and bones.
Eyes looking.
Absorbing things that seem to matter but might not.
Some are blatant stories told in books and on screens.
Some are real-life stories told by both phony and profound actors.
You are not those stories, though they amuse you much.
What are you?
A sense maker?
Hardly.
A self-feeding cog in a grand machine of army – advancing the cause of eons.
A crap shoot looking for geniuses and artists that can imagine “better worlds.”
But what of the worlds before?
Was your creature there?
Could you sense that?
Could you hear it in your DNA?
What are you, and where does what you’ve experienced go?
Does it encode and download somewhere?
Could it ever be understood?
A replication of misunderstanding?
A replication of perfect knowing?
Both – neither, all.
The experiment of the wanting machine.
No more, no less.
Each instance, the beginning and the end.
An imagination machine.
Some tasting wine and enthusiastically imagining twenty different berries, fruits and spices.
Others drinking vodka and staring down the clock.
Some with stories of triumph and good will.
Others repeating the worst of the instructions and regulations they’ve been told.
Some with tangled bodies dancing to a pleasing song from far off in the distance.
Some cursing the flesh encasing them and micro-managing the flesh that extended from that.
Loving with eyes.
Cursing with eyes.
A variation of the same game.
Both of us playing the good guy and the bad guy.
Could it be different?
Of course.
Should you want a change in the fabric to stick, you could loosen the threads of your garment and feel a slight breeze come through.
What am I?
That breeze.