DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Digimon or related chars. Damn. I do however own any original
creatures, characters, and concepts, including this dumb fic. And while there's not much I
could actually do to you should you for some reason steal my crap, I WILL put a hex on you. So THERE.
NOTE:I'm bored. Therefore, I make this offer--
I'll write a request for the first person who correctly guesses the char this is from the POV of.
Fanstuff, original stuff, poetry, fic. . .anything. So guess away.
Be Alive
Tell me what alive is.
I know that I know it, because I know it's what you are.
I know it's not what I am, and I know it's what you are, and I know it's something like the things that I tear into pieces and scatter into bright dying sparks of nothingness for you. But tell me what alive is, anyway. Because I'm not sure.
Even just a little of what alive is.
Just once.
I want to be alive, because you're alive. I know that much. I know I can't be alive, and I know I'm not supposed to be alive, and I think that maybe that's why I don't quite get it. No matter what, I don't quite get it. I don't get that either because I know I'm not stupid, you didn't make me to be stupid, so I think you didn't make me to understand it either.
Why can't I understand what alive is?
Is it bad that I want to know?
I think I might be afraid to ask you. I ask you all the time, but I'm afraid to ask you. I don't know if you'll get mad at me or you'll hate me or maybe you'll even get rid of me. Because I don't want you to get rid of me. I want to be more to you than the things I tear into cold bright pieces for you. I know they make you smile but I don't want to make you smile the way they do. And I don't know if you'd smile, if you got rid of me. I want to think you would, and I want to think you wouldn't, and I'm really kind of scared of the answer. So I ask you but I don't ask you. I kind of wonder if you know I'm asking. I kind of wonder if you know I'm thinking.
I want to ask you what alive is.
I want to ask you, instead of just asking you.
The other things that stay in the bright-dark room with you are alive, I think. They're alive, and you're alive, and the one that comes and talks that certain way to you and makes you mad that certain way; it's alive too. I hate them. I hate them because you're alive, and they're alive like you. But not me. I don't even know alive, so of course I can't be it. I'm not supposed to be it. I'm not supposed to be alive because you didn't make me to be alive. You only made me to do what you say, and to tear things--the strange things, the alive-notalive things--into bright burning-cold screaming pieces for you and make you smile. And when you smile I want to know how it feels to smile, and I don't understand why. I think it's called happy, but I'm not really sure. I think maybe you didn't make me to understand what happy is either, and that's okay too. Because I want to be what you made me to be. I want to be whatever you made me to be, because that must be what you wanted me to be. I want whatever you want. I only want what you want.
But I want to understand what alive is, too.
Even just a little.
Because the only thing I want that you don't want. . .the only thing I really want for me, just me. . .
Is to be alive. Like you.
