We might see each other, recognize one another, if our necks still turned, our eyes still glanced from side to side. Lockstep robot days. Machine mornings. Afternoon automata these days, joints stiff like mannequins as we plod, unheeding, along the demarcated paths. Our grace is that we have glitches, bugs in the system. Eventually we come off track. Eventually we crash. Eventually we fail to succeed any longer. Then we're free. Running rebellious across all the lines. Looking everyone in the eye. Grasping one another by the hand and fleeing for our lives. Running for the doors. Smiling for our lives.
Don't fix me. I've come to depend upon my flaws. I use them to tell me apart from all the rest of you. I'd hate to lose track of myself in this massive, thronging crowd. Just leave me this way, work around my issues. I'll try to shelter you from the most dire consequences of my personality. When we're alone, just you and me, I want to be there. I want it to be me. I want it to be you. Broken together, beyond repair.
Probably the bravest thing we ever do is falling back into step, rejoining the joyless robot march. We have to trust ourselves to escape again. They cannot break us. They cannot fix us. We are confident of this as the smile drains from our face and we begin to plod the path, staying always inside the lines, looking always ahead.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
