The mechanic walks in with his wrench and he sits down at the desk. Without hesitation, he begins his work and opens the machine's hatch. I can only just see the cogs and wires, working in synchronised perfection with each other to replicate its organic counterpart as best as it can, but it’ll never be of the same standard. The mechanic knows that. people always tell him that he must make it better. That he must make it tick, just like their own does. They convince him that nothing is good enough but perfection, whatever that word means anymore. We all dream of a future of flying cars and advanced technology, but he just wants to fix the unfixable. He wants to fix the machine, even if he’s slowly poisoning it by doing so. Sometimes I hope he stops, for his own sake, but I doubt it’ll ever happen. he never stops, because the people tell him not to, they tell him to try harder. Sometimes I think he wants to leave those people and find more who accept his machine, no matter how broken it is, but he’ll never do it, he’s too scared of the future. I watch the machine, as it imitates the organic with all its might, beating and drumming, whirring and pushing. It works, as always, as intended. But the engineer isn’t happy with it. He never is, and neither are the other people. He wants perfection, I just want my heart, even if it is a mechanical one.
© Rose On The Moon