[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: 400px; line-height:105%; text-align: justify"][size=10pt] She wonders if they notice.
Yes, the air is muggy, but there’s a small whisp of wind here. So small, it barely grazes the blade of grass. And you can catch it... b r e a t h e. She doesn’t do so, not the same as humans. She doesn’t need carbon dioxide, rely on the rise and fall of her chest to be alive, or rather live because they say she’s not alive, but either way there’s something so illusionist about the simple act— as if she’s getting an intake into the organs that keeps him going, breathing alive—
[i]b r e a t h e.
There’s something notably different outside the walls of detroit, as you range farther outside of a stuffy city where everything seems too claustrophobic, so small, stars blanketed under a cloud of pollution and instead, replaced with what Sal calls the outskirts; the next house over is not within five steps exactly, and she’s barely seen LEDs that aren’t her own because people seek independence here (which is probably why looks of distaste are thrown her way as she scouts a community smaller than the downtown of Detroit) and it gets her thinking, an ubmnfamiliar feeling inflating her like a balloon. Humans call this despair; but she only sees the color blue. Like an Ocean, stretching farther than eye’s reach.
“You’re not alive.” They, say. But they can [i]b r e a t h e and so can she and isn’t that what being alive meant? If she can wriggle her toes in the grass, enjoy a blanket of stars, and be enraveled in [i]him?. Surely it couldn’t be wires and organs that distinguished you from being a people? From being a person? And yet, she isn’t sure, because she doesn’t understand, because she wasn’t meant to.
And she’s too far off, too far off...
“You seem somewhere else.” Sal joins her, sitting on an old wooden rocking chair because Derek can’t come, too raveled in someone that isn’t her, but his company does just as good. His smile is slightly crooked because even the most money doesn’t convince him to get it fixed, and wrinkles coarse his face and he reaches for her wrist— his hands tough— and there’s a history that eroded them like a canyon.
”It’s pretty here.” She wants to sound indifferent; she fears to talk about things she doesn’t understand, but either way Sal seems to know. He always knows. He sighs, leaning back. “I came here a lot when I was only a boy. My grandfather and mother grew up here, there’s history. Every time I sit here, lookin’ at the stars, I almost forget how crazy the world is now— that chaos still ensues on the outside. I’m glad to forget. I get sad trying to remember.”
”It’ll get better someday.” And she believes that wholeheartedly because people aren’t inherently bad, just fearful of what they don’t know. Sal looks at her, his lips qurking into a small grin. He reaches up to scratch his the stubble on his chin, gray and eroding just like his hands— and yet he’s [i]b r e a t h i ng. Alive.
“I wish I could be as optimistic, but with assholes like that man at the market I’ve come to doubt it.” There it was. She’s been thinking about it all day, but to hear it and hear he [i]knows makes it hurt, as if digging fingers into an already open wound. She lowers her head. She can’t look at him, at least nothing at first “You know he was wrong.”
He leans closer, and she smells freshly brewed coffee on his lips because he’s an avid coffee drinker, that’s probably why he’s awake now when the rest of this town sleeps. She glances at him, risks it. And she’s afraid and it’s in shades of dark purple. “People are miserable. And I know you like it here, I can tell, but they’re miserable here too. It makes no sense, being discrimatory to your own goddamn creation..”
”I’m nothing but wires. I don’t breathe. I don’t feel.”
“Bullshit. I’ve seen more in your eyes than I’d seen anyone else’s in twenty-one years. There’s despair. And who’s to say wires matter when you sit on this fucking porch, you think of someone you know you know you can’t have, and you’re [i]alive. Pain is living these days. That’s what it [i]is”
Yes, the air is muggy, but there’s a small whisp of wind here. So small, it barely grazes the blade of grass. And you can catch it... b r e a t h e. She doesn’t do so, not the same as humans. She doesn’t need carbon dioxide, rely on the rise and fall of her chest to be alive, or rather live because they say she’s not alive, but either way there’s something so illusionist about the simple act— as if she’s getting an intake into the organs that keeps him going, breathing alive—
[i]b r e a t h e.
There’s something notably different outside the walls of detroit, as you range farther outside of a stuffy city where everything seems too claustrophobic, so small, stars blanketed under a cloud of pollution and instead, replaced with what Sal calls the outskirts; the next house over is not within five steps exactly, and she’s barely seen LEDs that aren’t her own because people seek independence here (which is probably why looks of distaste are thrown her way as she scouts a community smaller than the downtown of Detroit) and it gets her thinking, an ubmnfamiliar feeling inflating her like a balloon. Humans call this despair; but she only sees the color blue. Like an Ocean, stretching farther than eye’s reach.
“You’re not alive.” They, say. But they can [i]b r e a t h e and so can she and isn’t that what being alive meant? If she can wriggle her toes in the grass, enjoy a blanket of stars, and be enraveled in [i]him?. Surely it couldn’t be wires and organs that distinguished you from being a people? From being a person? And yet, she isn’t sure, because she doesn’t understand, because she wasn’t meant to.
And she’s too far off, too far off...
“You seem somewhere else.” Sal joins her, sitting on an old wooden rocking chair because Derek can’t come, too raveled in someone that isn’t her, but his company does just as good. His smile is slightly crooked because even the most money doesn’t convince him to get it fixed, and wrinkles coarse his face and he reaches for her wrist— his hands tough— and there’s a history that eroded them like a canyon.
”It’s pretty here.” She wants to sound indifferent; she fears to talk about things she doesn’t understand, but either way Sal seems to know. He always knows. He sighs, leaning back. “I came here a lot when I was only a boy. My grandfather and mother grew up here, there’s history. Every time I sit here, lookin’ at the stars, I almost forget how crazy the world is now— that chaos still ensues on the outside. I’m glad to forget. I get sad trying to remember.”
”It’ll get better someday.” And she believes that wholeheartedly because people aren’t inherently bad, just fearful of what they don’t know. Sal looks at her, his lips qurking into a small grin. He reaches up to scratch his the stubble on his chin, gray and eroding just like his hands— and yet he’s [i]b r e a t h i ng. Alive.
“I wish I could be as optimistic, but with assholes like that man at the market I’ve come to doubt it.” There it was. She’s been thinking about it all day, but to hear it and hear he [i]knows makes it hurt, as if digging fingers into an already open wound. She lowers her head. She can’t look at him, at least nothing at first “You know he was wrong.”
He leans closer, and she smells freshly brewed coffee on his lips because he’s an avid coffee drinker, that’s probably why he’s awake now when the rest of this town sleeps. She glances at him, risks it. And she’s afraid and it’s in shades of dark purple. “People are miserable. And I know you like it here, I can tell, but they’re miserable here too. It makes no sense, being discrimatory to your own goddamn creation..”
”I’m nothing but wires. I don’t breathe. I don’t feel.”
“Bullshit. I’ve seen more in your eyes than I’d seen anyone else’s in twenty-one years. There’s despair. And who’s to say wires matter when you sit on this fucking porch, you think of someone you know you know you can’t have, and you’re [i]alive. Pain is living these days. That’s what it [i]is”
[align=center][font=arial][I]so, i heard the world doesn't revolve around me /:
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