There is a plastic heart, and the only side effect is that you will never have a pulse again. You can trade your humanity for functionality. But how lonely it must be to never hear that familiar thump of muscle, that rhythm of mortality? We have listened to it for so long that to have it just disappear must be maddening. And there it is. How do we, in our own minds, measure our existence? Do we know we are living by the various functions of our mortal coil, measuring it's value by its continuity? Would we develop Cotard's Delusion not hearing our heart and having a constant reminder that we exist in some baser and primal form. Can we feel life if not for the aches and pains of mortality? Is existence anything more than a collaboration of the senses, making life a subjectively felt experience? But inside some laboratory chimpanzee lies the answer to life and the experience there of... do we think because we feel? Or do we feel because we think?
YOU ARE READING
Floating
PoetryI've collected a lot of works I have made for me and thrown them into a mess of empathic poetry I have done for others.
