To be created, one must assume the creator cares. That one is not simply a project. A bolt from tepid air.
To be awakened from your slumber, by the breath of life anew. Would it bring much excitement? Or confusion through which you view?
To be created and forgotten, to be drawn forth, then locked away. Would we but then trust the creators touch, or struggle to break our chains?
To gaze into a mirror, and find parts brand new to you. To view the amalgamation of ambition birthed tacitly into view.
To feel the lonesome aggression of a longing for love, yet a fear of hurt. To slowly turn in your mind the lesson of your creators profound work.
To slowly begin to remember a life which recently was torn away. And the agony of knowing your existence will never be the same.
Made into a monster, carved from flesh and bone. The broken sadness of knowing you will never find a home.
A place to which you belong, a family to hold you dear. The golden glow of companionship. So far and yet so near.
The faint memory of your wife’s caress, the precious purity of your child’s embrace. Feels much like a daydream, warped, frayed and slightly out of place.
To stand upon the precipice of what has been and what will be. To straddle a line so finite, the likes of which mortal man could never see.
To be the all encompassing vision, brought glaringly into view. To be the result of a blackened heart and a creators hope askew.
To be the embodiment of trial and error, guesses and fever dreams. To be the physical hope through which sincerity never fully rings.
Your existence has now been renewed and strangely, forthwith brought. You begin to ask yourself, did my heart ever really stop?
To have a life worth living, to die a happy man. That was all you required of life, before your existence began.
You trudge slowly onward, time meaning nothing of what it ought. Seeking peace in something of a swollen patchwork heart.
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