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Humans

I am what I am. I am my own creation.

The Human

Human intelligence is the soliloquy of the human mind. A human can be silent or can be voiced. I am an entity of every mistake I’ve made, dehumanized into nothing. I Cast off my sadness. Cast it into the air.

“I’m human, I’m not a machine.” The wires have pierced my back deep into my torso and the blood, filtered with arsenic and hydrogen peroxide. Changing me, molding me into a machine. I am a human, yes a human born of the earth, made of the dust of the stars. Tears of ancient rivers and breath of toxic fumes.

The sight of seeking constellations and burning suns. That’s being a human, but now I’ve become a machine. A factorized carcinogenically. An empty carcass filled with wires and oil. Skin made of paint and fiberglass, bones made of iron and steel.

Eyes of plastic and glass. The face of a human, body of a machine, mind of a lost soul. Emotion has been withdrawn from a beating heart. To be human is to be the sons and daughters of the God who has created us in minutes. The war against the Machines that we’ve built that’s supposed to protect us, has turned against the Humans.

To mankind, from the foulest and most soul-destroying tyranny have come to the age of Machines. We humans lack the gift of temperance. We’ve been blessed with the gift of Machines and with the gift we have changed into a dark transcendent. We have become a pseudo-biological perfunctory A.I. The blood in our bodies has turned to synthetic-based blood, my torso has been ripped and crush forever.

The pain of loneliness has invaded my soul, the skin to be ripped like paper and the bones to be snapped and crush is piercing into me and my nerves and veins shoot with pain that’s imaginable. I’ve been replaced with a body that I was not born with, instead been tailored with metal and tubes. I am a Machine, Not a Human. The only thing that reminds me of me being human is My Soul, My Heart, and My Brain. That’s being human.

I whisper to myself; “I’m a human, not a machine!”

A single tear had slipped down my painted face, I brush my hand on my face and look at the singular tear, and put it into a small, concealable container. I grab the pen that sits on the table and writes on the cover lid “Mensch.” I set the pen down and I stare at the container.

“This is my humanity. It’s been pushed into a small container.”

My name is Elias Walker, my serial number is 4A67E3.

I was the last human that lived. 

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Humans
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