witness, the machine-man. devoid of passion, stripped of feelings, naught but cold hard metal given the steel mind of cold mechanical rigidity. no heart, no capability for tears, nothing but cold hard movement of its unfeeling arms. he exists forever in his realm of black and white and grey, the never-ending film of monotony and unfeeling
in a world of swirling colour, sound and laughter he goes about his usual proceedings, unheeding, ignorant, nonchalant. the dancing pastelles of colour can never enter his realm, never will his blandness be polluted by the onset of colour. his steel body bears no ears for music and laughter; bears only eyes that take in mere image and movement but never the blatant beauty of images around; his cold metal hands grasp but never feel, touch but the machine-man is never touched
alas, what cold mind shaped him? was it a cold mind or cold hands that gave him his pitiful existence? was it instead a warm, passionate mind that dreamed of him, and desired to make him, but it was those mindless hands, unthinking on their own, that failed the passion of the mind,giving birth to a being that mimics the coldness and mindlessness of the hands? or did the machine-man ever once own a fluttering, beating, very alive heart? then was it the coldness of the things around him that made him escape into a solid cocoon of metal,, his private sanctuary of cold steel?
save the machine-man, else the steel around him gets colder than ever, else his hands totally are devoid of the memory of warm touch, else his existence is merely and simply explained by the cruel mechanisms that set him into unceasing, unthinking motion, a mindless clockwork that mocks the things around him that he never really does see
| Thoughts Became Words At 8:13 PM |
