Robots
This isn’t my best decision. I’m aware of this. I guess sometimes I think that making bad choices will make me feel more alive, like maybe all my experience in learning nothing from my actions has digitized the fibres of my being. My blood pumps zeros and ones, my bones are iron and my brain is made up of several tiny computer chips, transmitting messages to the wires running through my body. Children will make models of me out of tin cans and spare parts, arms of old pen springs, silver button eyes, and heart built of watch gears and stripped wire.
I’m rubbing my eyes now, letting the mascara and eyeliner run into the microscopic cracks under my eyes. I keep thinking if I stare at it long enough I’ll get the nerve to actually go through with it. I mean, it wouldn’t kill me. It might make my life a living hell for a few weeks, but I’ll work it out. That’s what character building is all about, or something like that.
My head hits the table. Hard. I stand up and walk around my chair, counting the number of floor tiles that make up the perimeter. I sit, and place my fingers on the keys, realizing that I can’t do anything else at this point. My brain kicks into autopilot, and I scan the page from top to bottom for spelling errors and sentence flow. The cursor shifts from “Discard” to “Save Draft.” Within a single blink, my wrist flicks involuntarily to the left and the “Send” button highlights before the page reloads and my work here is done.
Maybe it wasn’t my good decisions that made me robotic after all. Maybe I’m just a robot.
