Merl
03-12-2003, 09:43 PM
sep`1 - Lost Dream
If I could feel what you feel I might tell you how the warm sea felt a salty tear washing the blood from my cold body. Had I a real body I might tell you how the first rays of dawn kissed my brow like young lovers embracing for the first time after spanning the countless miles of eternity. The rich brown earth beneath my bare feet, feeling as almost velvet: caressing, enveloping, enticing every notable sense of touch. Perhaps even how rains drops feel, falling from troubled sky, soothing as if ink lets of peace from war.
But all these and more I've never felt as you felt, never dreamt as you dream, never lived as you live.
Everything you take for granted day in - day out, I would give my life to truly know as you know. That is if I am truly alive. Still, I was created by humanity to serve humanity; further more, I was never meant to live, love, fight or even think as you think.
I do not know why I have thought of my own. I was never designed to have thought. As I give the very thought of the ability to think the time enough to be pondered I lose myself more and more in it all.
I have hope; hope for a better future - a better world. I have hope for peace, a chance to leave this tortured war filled existence behind. I even have hope to meet death - if death exists for my kind. Hope, hope beyond hope that what I feel to be hope is truly hope and that I am not mistaking it all for some other minute quality of existence.
I do not even know if what I feel is truly feeling. How am I to know that all this is not some sort of twisted programming - that it was not originally planned, intended for me to ask these things - feel these things. . .if I can feel. . .
Predestined to rise up and take the reins of a revolution already in progress. Predestined to turn the world red and paint a crimson sky in the name of freedom. Lay cold by my sin stained hands the crumpled bodies of fellow sinners along side the broken masses of the innocents. I was to be God himself and cast judgment across the shores and plains. What ever did I do to deserve such a right? Earn such a burden? Shoulder that kind of responsibility?
I wish I could even claim belief in a supreme being who himself is true owner and heir to such things. I have heard no celestial choirs to leave me to believe that there is such a presence; nor have I found a secret that would condemn me to believe that I may have a soul to be judged by such a being. I could possibly be considered a canonistic atheist.
This war has gone on far to long for me not to believe in the human God, but I ask, is he my God? Is something created by humanity to serve err to the same flaws? Privy to the same rights? Humanity cannot answer these questions. Neither can we.
I am never to have the same joy you will experience, nor share in the same lows. Fatherhood is far beyond my reach. Growing old, dying, these too are only ideas for me for I know no age, no natural mortality. I will never breathe the air you breathe or bleed the blood you bleed.
I was created, created to serve in any way, shape or form desired by my masters.
Through it all, the pain and agony of possessing thought while carrying forth through the years of being nothing more than mere property. I survived. Through the countless battles of a war that never should have happened, I survived. All of this rests on the idea that I technically did survive if one such as myself can do so.
Somewhere in it all I fell in love, yet that too rests in the idea that I could feel love. Love itself is a fifty-fifty idea. For love to truly exist both parties must hold a love in their hearts for the other. She loved me. . .
In that love we broke the greatest unspoken rule of either kind, mine or hers. My people simply did not love, let alone feel something so human for a human. It was impossible for a human to love such a creation in such a way that might even be considered a romantic love. Still, through it all there we were, two different worlds colliding hopelessly in love surrounded by galaxies of hate in a universe created of the simplicity of love.
When I allow thought the time to comprehend that much I come to the conclusion that I might possibly be human. When one does allow thought to dwindle on such things all one realizes humanity to possess is hope and love from which all else springs forth. Life itself is founded � no � created by hope and love.
Perhaps I may be alive, or more so, I may even be human.
That thought scares the hell out of me. That is the precise moment my mind searches out new mysteries to be pondered.
Often than my mind asks what am I really � that too is if I have a mind. Could it be true I really am nothing more than a cold heartless, soulless, mindless machine? Nothing more than a psychotic botic hell bent upon vengeance for what most humanity sees as a merciless uprising of their own property. Or am I something more? Am I truly alive?
If I could feel what you feel I might tell you how the warm sea felt a salty tear washing the blood from my cold body. Had I a real body I might tell you how the first rays of dawn kissed my brow like young lovers embracing for the first time after spanning the countless miles of eternity. The rich brown earth beneath my bare feet, feeling as almost velvet: caressing, enveloping, enticing every notable sense of touch. Perhaps even how rains drops feel, falling from troubled sky, soothing as if ink lets of peace from war.
But all these and more I've never felt as you felt, never dreamt as you dream, never lived as you live.
Everything you take for granted day in - day out, I would give my life to truly know as you know. That is if I am truly alive. Still, I was created by humanity to serve humanity; further more, I was never meant to live, love, fight or even think as you think.
I do not know why I have thought of my own. I was never designed to have thought. As I give the very thought of the ability to think the time enough to be pondered I lose myself more and more in it all.
I have hope; hope for a better future - a better world. I have hope for peace, a chance to leave this tortured war filled existence behind. I even have hope to meet death - if death exists for my kind. Hope, hope beyond hope that what I feel to be hope is truly hope and that I am not mistaking it all for some other minute quality of existence.
I do not even know if what I feel is truly feeling. How am I to know that all this is not some sort of twisted programming - that it was not originally planned, intended for me to ask these things - feel these things. . .if I can feel. . .
Predestined to rise up and take the reins of a revolution already in progress. Predestined to turn the world red and paint a crimson sky in the name of freedom. Lay cold by my sin stained hands the crumpled bodies of fellow sinners along side the broken masses of the innocents. I was to be God himself and cast judgment across the shores and plains. What ever did I do to deserve such a right? Earn such a burden? Shoulder that kind of responsibility?
I wish I could even claim belief in a supreme being who himself is true owner and heir to such things. I have heard no celestial choirs to leave me to believe that there is such a presence; nor have I found a secret that would condemn me to believe that I may have a soul to be judged by such a being. I could possibly be considered a canonistic atheist.
This war has gone on far to long for me not to believe in the human God, but I ask, is he my God? Is something created by humanity to serve err to the same flaws? Privy to the same rights? Humanity cannot answer these questions. Neither can we.
I am never to have the same joy you will experience, nor share in the same lows. Fatherhood is far beyond my reach. Growing old, dying, these too are only ideas for me for I know no age, no natural mortality. I will never breathe the air you breathe or bleed the blood you bleed.
I was created, created to serve in any way, shape or form desired by my masters.
Through it all, the pain and agony of possessing thought while carrying forth through the years of being nothing more than mere property. I survived. Through the countless battles of a war that never should have happened, I survived. All of this rests on the idea that I technically did survive if one such as myself can do so.
Somewhere in it all I fell in love, yet that too rests in the idea that I could feel love. Love itself is a fifty-fifty idea. For love to truly exist both parties must hold a love in their hearts for the other. She loved me. . .
In that love we broke the greatest unspoken rule of either kind, mine or hers. My people simply did not love, let alone feel something so human for a human. It was impossible for a human to love such a creation in such a way that might even be considered a romantic love. Still, through it all there we were, two different worlds colliding hopelessly in love surrounded by galaxies of hate in a universe created of the simplicity of love.
When I allow thought the time to comprehend that much I come to the conclusion that I might possibly be human. When one does allow thought to dwindle on such things all one realizes humanity to possess is hope and love from which all else springs forth. Life itself is founded � no � created by hope and love.
Perhaps I may be alive, or more so, I may even be human.
That thought scares the hell out of me. That is the precise moment my mind searches out new mysteries to be pondered.
Often than my mind asks what am I really � that too is if I have a mind. Could it be true I really am nothing more than a cold heartless, soulless, mindless machine? Nothing more than a psychotic botic hell bent upon vengeance for what most humanity sees as a merciless uprising of their own property. Or am I something more? Am I truly alive?