Pawn in Their Game
I dream of a laboratory, steely and clinical with aisles of high-tech equipment and shiny machinery of giant proportions. I scuttle through mazes of wires like a lab-rat, insignificant and waiting to fall into a trap.
I spend hours hiding in the shadows, watching them as they work. Sometimes they experiment, playing with atoms and molecules until they produce something powerful and hideous. Mostly, they stick to their routines. They build circuits and synthesise chemicals which they bottle up and store away for later use.
They are faceless, invisible – the precursor to every story and the words between the lines. They keep vast quantities of liquid emotion in the stock cupboard which they create in vitro and inject into a sub-dimensional projection of their subjects, manipulating laws of science and bending the rules of space and time to their will. The subjects – the products of their experiments – exist in a separate world of fixed sensory capacity, unable to question beyond the limited perception gifted to them by their creators.
In my waking hours I am haunted by my inability to fight the limits of my mind; frustrated by the illusions which have become my reality. I am a product and a prisoner of chemicals: my body is derived from the same clusters of atoms which pump through my veins and through synaptic clefts in my brain, translating into feeling and subsequent response.
We run amok, blinded by pain we cannot fully grasp and acting on impulses which we do not understand. As we act out our soap-operas on the stage of our lives, battling heartbreak and revelling in success, they are the silent stage-hands which change the scenes. They turn winter into spring; they tear our worlds apart and inject us with new-found hope at the point where we cannot take any more. In their world, they split atoms and boil metal as easily as we can flick a switch.
They are our omniscient creators and we are merely pawns in their game.