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BRICK
Nothing touches me.
This is neither quite as accurate nor as universally terrible as it sounds: a rock feels no pain, right? Anything can touch me; I'm not intangible. That's someone else's schtick. Ghostgirl or something.
Anything can touch me, but nothing can break my skin, nothing can pierce my heart and bleed it out into the chilly air. No pain.
Conversely, there is 'no pain, no gain' to consider. Without breakdowns, there can't be any breakthroughs. No reconstruction or improvement, no building, no growing. Without destruction, it's impossible for creation to proceed.
No one is an island unto his- or herself.
I'm supposed to be unstoppable, self-sufficient, clear in my purpose and able to carry it out. My designers, however, didn't see the fatal flaw they unwittingly included when they left my soul intact. Not just my soul, either - my soul and my memories, that eclectic collection of electrical patterns which determines my identity, my potential, my path.
I can remember touch.
Warm summer sun on my face coupled with the scent of strawberries and baking clay, crisp cool autumn air and the accompanying aroma of burning leaves, the deliciously entertaining snapping sensation of my hair caught in a January rain, spring mists clinging to my clothes and skin - it's all there, etched into my mind. In my head, I can still slip into the crystal-clear, frigid and depthless water of the swimming hole down the quarry way - can still remember the relief it brought after a day spent getting sunburnt cutting grass and fiddling around with my Da's television antenna, up on the roof--
Lani's slender cold painter's hands brushing my staticky dry-weather hair away from my temples, sliding delicately down the side of my face, then neck, then into my collar, loosening the tie I always wore when I went out. The unspeakable softness of her skin under my fingers, the weight of the glasses on my nose - she loved fogging them up, laughed when I told her I must be dying because everything was going white--
It's all just a world in my head, now.
They needed a brick, they said. Someone to go first, someone who couldn't get hurt. I volunteered because I couldn't feel anything anymore anyway, not after what happened to her. Numb.
I just didn't realize I needed to be able to feel to move past the grief. Maybe I realized it but I didn't care. They didn't care -- still don't. They got most of what they wanted, and all the appropriate papers were signed and sealed, and if circumstances and needs and emotions changed after that? The greater good's the important thing. They had to have a brick.
Chin up. Stiff upper lip. Rough and ready, rockstar.
The heat of countless suns - sealed behind lightyears of cold vacuum, useful only in calculations, navigation. Cold, twinkling, careless stars. And--
--a rock feels no pain.
Copyright (c) 2004 Gina Donahue and Pop Crack Magic Entertainment
Nothing touches me.
This is neither quite as accurate nor as universally terrible as it sounds: a rock feels no pain, right? Anything can touch me; I'm not intangible. That's someone else's schtick. Ghostgirl or something.
Anything can touch me, but nothing can break my skin, nothing can pierce my heart and bleed it out into the chilly air. No pain.
Conversely, there is 'no pain, no gain' to consider. Without breakdowns, there can't be any breakthroughs. No reconstruction or improvement, no building, no growing. Without destruction, it's impossible for creation to proceed.
No one is an island unto his- or herself.
I'm supposed to be unstoppable, self-sufficient, clear in my purpose and able to carry it out. My designers, however, didn't see the fatal flaw they unwittingly included when they left my soul intact. Not just my soul, either - my soul and my memories, that eclectic collection of electrical patterns which determines my identity, my potential, my path.
I can remember touch.
Warm summer sun on my face coupled with the scent of strawberries and baking clay, crisp cool autumn air and the accompanying aroma of burning leaves, the deliciously entertaining snapping sensation of my hair caught in a January rain, spring mists clinging to my clothes and skin - it's all there, etched into my mind. In my head, I can still slip into the crystal-clear, frigid and depthless water of the swimming hole down the quarry way - can still remember the relief it brought after a day spent getting sunburnt cutting grass and fiddling around with my Da's television antenna, up on the roof--
Lani's slender cold painter's hands brushing my staticky dry-weather hair away from my temples, sliding delicately down the side of my face, then neck, then into my collar, loosening the tie I always wore when I went out. The unspeakable softness of her skin under my fingers, the weight of the glasses on my nose - she loved fogging them up, laughed when I told her I must be dying because everything was going white--
It's all just a world in my head, now.
They needed a brick, they said. Someone to go first, someone who couldn't get hurt. I volunteered because I couldn't feel anything anymore anyway, not after what happened to her. Numb.
I just didn't realize I needed to be able to feel to move past the grief. Maybe I realized it but I didn't care. They didn't care -- still don't. They got most of what they wanted, and all the appropriate papers were signed and sealed, and if circumstances and needs and emotions changed after that? The greater good's the important thing. They had to have a brick.
Chin up. Stiff upper lip. Rough and ready, rockstar.
The heat of countless suns - sealed behind lightyears of cold vacuum, useful only in calculations, navigation. Cold, twinkling, careless stars. And--
--a rock feels no pain.
Copyright (c) 2004 Gina Donahue and Pop Crack Magic Entertainment
