I feel like a robot
Do you ever have moments where you feel like a robot? Where day to day interactions with humans that you've done so often they should be as natural as breathing suddenly feel foreign and wrong? It's like that moment in dreams where you have to pee, you run to the bathroom, start to pee, and realize "OH GOD!! THIS IS WRONG!", and you wake up in a panic and run to the bathroom. It's just like that.
Except there is no waking up and running to the bathroom. There is no relief. There is only the constant feeling of "WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING AND WHY??". It's very strange. It's bad enough at this point that I actually questioned myself when I went to the bathroom at work. I sat down to pee and had that sharp, almost orgasmic moment of panic, wondering why I hadn't woken up yet.
Stupid stories.
That's what started this. Well, maybe not started it. But brought it to full fruition. Reading about the growth of sentient intelligence, about the growth of love, and the dawning realization within that intelligence that there was no real place for love... very depressing.
Very good, too. I am in absolute awe of authors who can take my reality and warp it to their whim. That's what this woman did. She used her words to subtly twist and shape an already malleable sense of reality into her version of truth. And I enjoyed every minute of it. I couldn't stop reading the story, even as I grew more and more depressed and unhappy.
Now that's talent. To take pain and turn it into something useful and interesting. Even if it's other peoples pain. Maybe especially if it's others pain.
So, now I'm stuck in a gray world, wondering what the fuck I'm doing in here and not out there. I'm craving sensation... rain on my face, hands on my body, cold on my tongue, needle in my skin... any proof that I'm real. Instead I'm stuck in a sterile cube, with nothing but my imagination for company. And my imagination is not my friend right now.
Except there is no waking up and running to the bathroom. There is no relief. There is only the constant feeling of "WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING AND WHY??". It's very strange. It's bad enough at this point that I actually questioned myself when I went to the bathroom at work. I sat down to pee and had that sharp, almost orgasmic moment of panic, wondering why I hadn't woken up yet.
Stupid stories.
That's what started this. Well, maybe not started it. But brought it to full fruition. Reading about the growth of sentient intelligence, about the growth of love, and the dawning realization within that intelligence that there was no real place for love... very depressing.
Very good, too. I am in absolute awe of authors who can take my reality and warp it to their whim. That's what this woman did. She used her words to subtly twist and shape an already malleable sense of reality into her version of truth. And I enjoyed every minute of it. I couldn't stop reading the story, even as I grew more and more depressed and unhappy.
Now that's talent. To take pain and turn it into something useful and interesting. Even if it's other peoples pain. Maybe especially if it's others pain.
So, now I'm stuck in a gray world, wondering what the fuck I'm doing in here and not out there. I'm craving sensation... rain on my face, hands on my body, cold on my tongue, needle in my skin... any proof that I'm real. Instead I'm stuck in a sterile cube, with nothing but my imagination for company. And my imagination is not my friend right now.
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