Disclaimer: I don't own Sonic, Shadow the ARK or any of that stuff...
Power of Ideas
I'm here and yet I'm not... for all intensive purposes, I don't exist yet. At the moment I'm an idea, something to be aspired to... The product of hundreds of years work, each generation getting a step closer to what? Me? Am I the sole product of so many people's work? No, not really, hopefully some good can come of what you learn from me. So what is my purpose? I'm not sure. I'm not even born yet, though by the meaning of the word that is something I will never experience. So if I am not yet born, am I alive? If I cannot be born, will I ever be alive? Perhaps it is better not to get into that debate. However I do think that the meaning of many words will become unclear with my creation, for that is what we must call it, creation... that sounds grand in a perverse kind of way...
So what am I? A shadow?... yes... I am a shadow of what I will be... For now I am a mind, a sentient spirit. My body has yet to form, every day I exult in the glory of new sensations, my fingers, and my toes are all new to me, and startle my blurry senses as I brush them against the glass. I know I am a perversion to nature... I am the object of both hate, and admiration. Most creatures come kicking and screaming into the world, hardly aware of their own existence, only for the sentient mind and language with it to develop later on along the way. Before a means of communication develops, how can anyone understand what is in the mind of the holder? I am a reversal of this, currently I am only a mind, floating in an endless sea of colour. I don't believe my eyes are formed yet, if they are, I can't open them. So what do I do with this senseless eternity? I think, and I dream, who's to say what is real and what is not?
Fairy stories are not something the scientists saw fit to fill my mind with. However, you, my Angel more than made up for that; they are all the more glorious because they are not forced into my mind while I sleep. Whenever I hear your voice my Angel, I wake from my dreaming, only to listen to the way you speak, the melodic chime of your voice. You alone talk to me rather than around me, not that I haven't learned a multitude of things from my creators. My favourite story is Pinocchio, though I've only heard it once. It is the tale of a puppet, forged from a simple piece of firewood, that would have been placed in the flames to create warmth and light, who in the skilled hands of his creators became something real. Maybe, I, like him, though fashioned of chemicals and carbon sugars in an endless string of C's, G's, A's and T's, can someday cease to be an idea and become something real, a tangible thing. Maybe I in turn can bring warmth, light and hope myself.
My story, like Pinocchio's does not begin with a king, it begins with an idea... with human curiosity, and an almost endless string of letters... my story, of course, begins, with me.