electric sleep
One upside to being fake and manufactured? In those days you were still one-of-a-kind. Still a scientific impossibility. And when the doctor said, hey, it's okay—lots of people go through this. You're not alone. Want a support group? Want other people who know your story, know what's going on and how you feel? Want drugs?
And when the doctor hesitated over his prescription pad, remembering, uh oh, uh oh… You could feel so gratified because that's right. Special. Oh so fucking special. Only. Unique. And you could feel so relieved, even when you were sobbing and the doctor was staring, trying to backtrack. And you could feel so glad, in some mechanical-manufactured part of your heart.
Because this grief was yours. This pain was yours only.
Alone. A scientific impossibility. And no one could take it away from you. No one could understand you and belittle you and force you into a statistic. No one could know you or—it was yours. Untakable. For the first time in your life something that couldn't be taken. Since you weren't alone and human—you'd gained at least ONE thing: you became perfect-snowflake-special.
There's something to be said for not being real.