The Endless Flight
I am a Vehicon, and no other. To say otherwise is to create a self, a personality which does not exist. There is no me beyond the Vehicon. That is all. I am a shell, a puppet on strings. My will is not mine. My thoughts are not mine. My actions are not mine.
I hear the calling of the voices. The dimmer of the two, that is me. Inconsequential. Snuffed out by the greater calling of necessity and existence, existence and survival. The louder of the two, the puppetmaster. I obey to survive, please to survive. It can be no other way.
What thoughts lie within, when not to duty, to life? I know not myself. These are the ramblings of a Vehicon, the inner struggle of nothingness and being. I ask myself the same that you ask me. What do I do when the puppetmaster has no calling? These are the inner thoughts of a Vehicon.
There cannot be an existence completely without the mind. It can be shunned to the far corners of the blackest void, but there it flourishes on its own. There cannot be an existence without mind, body, soul. To create a life without one is impossible. My body is not mine. It is the discarded remnants of some other. My mind is given to me, not by choice or preference, but by a divine intervention. But the soul is mine, snuffed to the farthest corner, the darkest cave, but it can still see.
I ask myself, though, can I see it? Or is there anything worth seeing? Was she right, upon that confrontation, where my instincts took over, the soul speaking forth? Or was that merely the musings of my mechanical imagination taking a pleasure ride to the stars? No, no, no. She cannot have been, could not have been right. It is too much to say so. I am a Vehicon.
Yet here I ask myself the very question which answers itself upon asking. Upon asking of my existence I define it. There is the soul. There is the inner being. In the depths of blackness, beyond the layers of obedience and following, there lay the territory unknown. But that is no place for a Vehicon. There is no inside for the Vehicon. Inside? There is none. No, it cannot be.
No, she must not have been right on that confrontation. Though I can see myself acting, see myself reacting, see myself thinking. Or not thinking. For when the mind is quiet, is it not the soul that speaks through the body? Harsh familiarity tells me it is not that other voice, the loud and the domineering. Is it that other that I thought heretofore nonexistent?
Why do I ask myself these things now? Is it because upon seeing her, I felt. I felt. I am a Vehicon. To me there is no feeling. I am a Vehicon. To me there is no thought but of the master. I am a Vehicon. I am a Vehicon. Am I?
Truths be told, I know nothing. There is nothing which I can know. I am only one among a sea of many. I am only me, if at all. There is a being, an existence I have only forgotten. So far down the dark, dark tunnel it is that I cannot see the end. There is a light at the end, but it is only spoken of. Do I choose to believe? Do I choose to believe these tales that others tell, especially that one, the she that I confronted? What does it mean to shun all that I know, that my mind knows, for a mere promise, a hint of solace from the soul? I find myself tempted to that glimmer of hope, no matter how small. Once again, I am feeling. Is it not the essence of existence, this idea of hope and promise? No, no, I cannot. For I cling to the things that I see familiar, blind myself to the world that could be, shun myself from the outside. I am a Vehicon, no other. I tell myself, repeatedly. I feel the familiarity of the puppetstrings. I feel the familiarity of the internal emptiness. I feel the familiarity of the emotionless obedience. I am a Vehicon. I must be a Vehicon. I can only be a Vehicon. What am I? I am a Vehicon. What am I? Vehicon. Vehicon! What am I? Who am I? What am I?