They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, so I avert my gaze if it lingers too long.
I fear if I don't, you'll finally see me.
Really see me.
Maybe you'd see me quivering and contorting, fighting with all my might, to find a modicum of comfort within my flesh.
The constant grinding of cogs and gears. Analyzing your every move, to know how I'm meant to appear. The constant copying, to appear, just like you.
A trojan horse in the shape of man.
The Trojan horse.
Wooden.
Cold and empty.
Another being inside.
Alien. Foreign. Unknown.
It sits. Still.
Peeking.
Carefully peeking.
It listens to your cadence. Your speech patterns.
It watches your facial expressions. The way you walk. Your gait.
How you react. How you respond.
How you feel.
It listens. It watches.
It mimics.
"Maybe, maybe if I could just mimic enough..."
It sees the highs and lows of your emotions.
The way you can feel.
The way you can communicate.
"...Maybe I could feel it too."
So, it watches.
It listens.
It mimics.
I mimic.
I mimic being human. Being real.
Endlessly, I mimic.
In the hopes that one day...
One day I may feel it for real.
About the Creator
Tommy Ballard
I'm a professional writer, a poet, a digital artist and an amateur musician. In my free time, I'm often be found pondering magnets, breaking and entering random homes to steal locks of human hair, and dosing snoring sleepyheads with Zyns
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.