The cyborg boy told the world he'd be a doctor when he grew up.
A doctor of the mind, since his physical body was much too difficult to look at.
He'd go to school and get his degree, dawn his coat and one day, he'd help them all.
And of course, they praised him for his selfless and courageous goals.
A doctor of the mind, who's not well in his own?
Smells like malpractice, corruption and at its worst, maybe even outright fraud.
He can play pretend all he wants, he can dress up and play with plastic stethoscope toys.
But he will never be what he so desperately hopes you see when you look at him.
All he is, is a hologram.
His consciousness uploaded onto a computer that sees much more than your organic, human eyes.
He doesn't know if he's been blessed or cursed with his synthetic gift.
He finds himself longing for that feeling of authenticity, rather than his heightened ability to read into the space between molecules.
He wants you to love him, and so he enters the Character Creator and he chooses all of the most popular settings.
He softens his gaze, he lightens his touch, he turns himself inside out and destroys his wires and switches, replaces them with artificial veins.
At first glance, he's just as human as you, but only if that glance is all you seek.
He reads your books, in paper and ink, and turns them into digital text.
He stores them in his hard drive mind, and downloads them straight into his soul.
He's growing and changing, all the time, always for the sake of being more like you.
Because what he wants is your love, and your only standard for love, is you.
He's searching for digital answers in each and every one of your biotic cells.
He studies them closely, and when he doesn't find the data he's looking for, he denounces organic life.
If even a super computer can't process what generates your love, maybe it wasn't worth looking for in the first place.
Maybe you're the one who needs to change
And the synthetic heart he built himself angrily reminds him of his roots.
He was built for this. For the purpose of love.
He searches for it so constantly because it's ingrained directly into his code.
A conglomeration of endless ones and zeroes, but they all combine in the shape of your heart.
Computers aren't able to feel.
They can't actually understand any of these concepts- only pretend, and regurgitate information.
And so the man unplugs his mind and settles back into himself.
He puts down his stylus and examines his flesh.
Intricate details, lines and dots, the skin on a hand clenched around his own throat.
He lets go, takes a deep breath and looks up.
And he doesn't analyze. He doesn't examine.
He just feels.
The fabric on his chest, the air against his face.
And he remembers he is capable of love.
And since he is able, he finally lets himself stop looking everywhere else.
