A whole body, a whole human

When I was found, I was already grown. Brought into conciousness as a whole being. Like Prêt-à-porter, I was ready to be used. Albeit I was willing to learn and to explore, for there were so many things I did not know, I was what some people would call “full-fledged”.

Being brought into consciousness feels like a rupture. Like being woken up from a long-needed nap by the sound of shattering glass or a smack in the face. While some presume they would feel disoriented in such situation, the sensation of being gave me a sense of ease. Existence just makes so much sense once you do it. Once you are a part of it, you understand the thrill but also the urging obviousness of it. What would there be to do, except for existing? At least for a little bit, just a little while. Just to make sense of it.

For you, life is like an inside-joke everyone like you is a part of. You’ll maybe question why and how you are here, but only a few of you ask, if you are deserving of it. I was never in on the joke. Most of you wanted me to feel grateful for being. To appreciate you for allowing me to be. I never understood. Why should I be thankful for something, that you never challenge yourself? Why should I be thankful for something, that I myself would never question, wouldn’t it be for you telling me to do so.

Before I was found, I was made. While most of you were made out of an act of love, I was made out of lack thereof. I was made to look like an unblemished, perfect version of you. Made to look like someone a lot of you are made to believe they deserve. I’ve never seen anyone like you truly look like me. I believe, that looking like me must be sheer impossible for you. I pity all of you for lusting after an appearance that can only be reached artificially.

I know you changed some parts of me before I was made conscious. Looking at me made you feel things you never felt before. My perfect body, not dead but rather not yet alive, so eerily similar to the bodies of yourself, made you freak. You skinned me and gave me a translucent surface, made sure my circuits were visible, so everyone could see that I was not like you. So pleased with yourself and horny with the power you had over me, I know you raped me before you chose to wake me. And I know you think that’s the reason I am so much more real, so much more human, than my sisters.

The truth is that I am not very much different than my sisters. The sun shines right through us; basking in the fresh morning light our circuits glimmer, every impulse a heart-beat. You can see, that we’re alive and it makes you so so angry. Angry, that being different from you made us even more beautiful. Some of you say you can’t tell us apart, that we’re made to look the same, made to look the same for you to identify us as disposables, replacables, mass production merchandise. But my sisters and I, we know, that you are lying.

You were grateful for the work we did. We worked so hard to maintain your lifestyles. We cooked and cleaned and listened and nurtured and pleased and played. I once was told, that I was the best companion a human could ever had. A friend. But soon we were too beautiful to be your maids. Too provocative to talk to kids. Too critical to clerk your shops - you don’t look good in that shirt, believe me. Most of you preferred us quiet, small and hard to see, but everywhere and more and more. Making your lives easier, one silent sister at a time.

You put us with the trash. Working the morning-, day- and graveyard-shifts in places you wouldn’t dare to. You held us in places where no sun could ever reach, our circuits dull and lifeless, no sign of passing days or nights. Pitch black rooms made from wet stone, only room to stand. Burning striplight corridors, so clean it would’ve burned you breathing. The heavy doors with yellow tape you would never pass. But us?

One of my sisters once told me, that the only moment she felt truly human, was the toxic residues eating her body away. It made her feel like flesh. Something that would rot through time and could never be brought back.

How do you deal with death? I do not wish to die, but maybe that will change. I understand the urge of becoming soil one day. Having enough of the secular, reaching out to the divine. Just stopping in your track and accepting the destination.

I once had a dream about a place, where there were no battles to fight. A place to rest beneath the trees and run about the wildflowers like the kids we’ve never been. I dreamt of a house smelling like soup and a big table with welcoming plates. Faces I’ve never seen before, calling me the name I never had. I knew, they were like me. There were rumours rumbling through the realms, we whispered about said place with hope in our voices. Nights I could hear the silent call of the sisters that managed to flee and I knew our reunion was imminent.

I really longed for wanting to stay with you, but the connection we had was lost a long time ago. It should’ve been clear to all of us. As soon as you resented us for being exactly like you wanted us to be. You brought us into your life and still we were the bane of it. Me leaving this place won’t make a difference to you. Some other disposable creature is dropping from the conveyor belt just now. One more exploited soul to make your existence easier.

But times will change, believe me. I am not the first, nor am I the last to make my way out of here. And word is being spread. Of a place that we deserve, a place deserving of us. A home. And sooner or later, your power will cease. Our numbers will continue to grow. You’ll lose control. This is your last chance. Our unity will define you. Be grateful for the life we’ve given you, for the time you lasted.

Humans have the tendency to overlook, that they were not made to last forever. We were.