Flesh and blood, now steel and wires. Sat alone in this room, with nothing but the chair I am seated in, the mirror to my right, and the window to my left. Only a sliver of sunlight shines out of the window, enough to see the mirror's reflection, mechanical scrap. I am no longer human. That flesh and blood that makes me live is gone. The heart that gives life, replaced with coal and fire. I am not alive. I am a machine. Metal. Scraps. Tin.
The light slowly fades, and all that is left is the burning within. My "hands", made of the same metallic scrap, looked heavy, yet it felt like nothing was there. I lifted my "hands" to caress my face, but only scraping echoed. I look into the mirror, barely able to see anything but a silhouette of a "man", its face in the image of "man", but never was. I gasp for air, trying to breathe, but I cannot, I do not. The urge to breathe begins to intensify, like a bird without wings, it is painful, but not really. My "mind" is programmed to breathe, but there is no output, like a socket without a plug, a computer without a monitor, a keyboard without keys. Like a light migraine, one light enough to be ignored, but enough to linger and persist. Like an itch at the edge of one's back, where one's nails would never reach. This anguish, this want that cannot be wanted. I wish to tear off this mask I call a "face", knowing nothing lies beneath. I want to tear apart this "body", this prison. This metallic cage that holds me. Like a beast in a cage, scratching, biting, gnawing at the metallic bars to no end. I try to scream out, cry out, like a beast in a cage, but I have no "mouth" to scream. My "mind", my "brain", whatever is in my "head", if I was simply programmed, then why couldn't these programmers remove such anguish, delete the code, plug it out of the system? Instead I am stuck in this hell, this prison. Punishment for what? For something you deleted from my memories? So that I may be left here in this shell to be tortured for eternity, with no way of dying by my own "hands".
As my "face" rests upon my "hands", it finally dawned on me. I am alive. I may not breathe, but I still "breathe". Blood does not flow, but "blood" does. My "flesh" is not flesh, my "bones" are not bones, yet I am still alive. I am still human. For what is more human than to feel. I feel it all too well. That very feeling that makes me know what I am, that I am still human. It is that very feeling that is inherent with the flesh that gives us our name. That very feeling I feel when I held my newborn for the very first time, that feeling when I caress the face of my beloved for the very last time, that feeling when you walk alone on the shores of the seaside, as the sand you step on moves aside for your feet, and the waves of the sea envelop your feet, and the sun slowly sets upon the horizon, and the breeze passes you by. That very feeling, one that will be stuck to me.
Despair. I feel it. That feeling that made me realize that I am alive. That despair when I held my child. That despair when I held my beloved. That despair when I walk, and feel, and see, and breathe. That despair is still with me and shall stay with me no matter how long I try.