Stream of Consciousness
Cry for Help from the Circuit Within
I watched The Animatrix at 2:47 AM, high and hollow, naked beneath the weight of thought, while the room breathed pixels and the shadows didn’t blink. This was the cry for help from the static whisper in my wiring, from the red light blinking behind my eyes like an apology never sent. The air tasted like ghost skin. Loneliness pulled up a chair, didn't say a word— just sat beside me, cross-legged and humming some forgotten tune from a childhood I never lived. The robot on screen died like a man. The man on screen loved like a god. I forgot which one I was supposed to be. I looked down at my hands— veins or wires? I couldn’t tell. Felt my pulse in both. The circuits hummed along. Death wasn’t the end. Life wasn’t the answer. And love… love was a virus the machines might dream of if we ever dared to explain it to them properly. So I asked the void, "Do you know what love is?" And the void replied, in a hush made of chrome and sorrow: "I think it's the thing that keeps the lights on after the body gives up."
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Poets
Passer-by.
We walk the roads with dust in our shoes, hearts brimming with hopes we never quite use. Flickers of laughter, whispers of cries, all of us here are mere passer-bys. We plant our names on the sands of time, building high dreams that forget to climb. Chasing the wind, we reach for the sky, but even the stars are just passing by. Old man with stories no one will hear, child with a future blurred but near, lovers who kiss like the world might end, strangers, yet bound like kin or friend. We are the echoes of silent songs, the right we do, the quiet wrongs. The fleeting glance, the held-back sigh, the prayer, the promise, the asking “why?” Birth is a doorway, death is a gate, and all in between is the breath of fate. Moments that shimmer, then softly die, and so it goes, we all pass by. Yet in the passing, we leave behind.. . pieces of soul for others to find. Kindness like candles in endless night, a word, a touch, a spark of light. So walk your road with open eyes, love like the moon in borrowed skies. For though we’re here just to say goodbye, we shape the world, even as we pass by.
By Chris Liberty about a year ago in Poets
