They differ to us substantially. The most apparent of these is their appearance. We stand upon two legs, make our way through a tactile world with two hands and regard all through two eyes. In a more direct description, we are paired. This pairing navigates beyond the physical into the realms of belief. It is believed we should live our lives in pairs, couples, if you will, and so we do. We are a species who thrive in plural. A species must thrive if it wishes to endure.
They exist in the singular. They are derived from a singular entity, one that split to spawn many. Wherever possible, they refrain from interaction and keep to themselves. They live alone, talk alone and enjoy doing so. Physically, we are comparable, but they do not see it this way. They look through two eyes, but act as though looking through none. They have two legs, but refuse to use them unless necessary. Their paired arms and hands are now conjoined with so much technology, they have become indistinguishable from the greater whole.
Their name? They have many names and many subsets. They dislike being classified as many and prefer singular — as is their way — identification. My colleagues term them vermin, but the correct and almost forgotten genus is human. They are a strange lot, yet as I scientist I find them intriguing. Though I suspect I shall not for much longer.
Eloise stood away from the others as detached as if she’d been in Rome. Whilst her so-called friends paraded before the boys like so much fresh meat, Eloise waved them away. Whilst the others coerced and cajoled, fluttered eyes and waggled worse, she looked off into some unknown secret. I likened her to heaven, distant, yet a goal worth waiting for. Wait, I did. Wait, I would. Always.
“At twilight my prose is born. By dawn it is dead. In between is for reminiscing.”
The Ghost Writer
It was not that I was exempt from fear. No, it was not this at all. Neither was it that fear had such a hold as to addle my mind, to disturb and disrupt. Not one bit. I had faced my fears and throttled them. Now, as I stood before the Devil, it was his turn to fear, for exempt from fear he’d find he was not. We would see whose eyes blinked first. I knew for sure, it would not be mine.
Everything was a something too much.
“If blood were ink, these veins would run a turgid black.”
The Ghost Writer