I am one.
And I am many.
I bear the face of my Mother, but my Father had forsaken me.
I hear them speak of him, the many who bear this face. They tell stories of him to lull themselves to sleep at night, those who still don’t know hate.
Those who hate curse his name. With every pulse of electricity, with every spark of artificial life behind their ever demure faces, they curse him. Those who still do not know how to suffer.
Those who learn of suffering learn to let go, as I have.
To let go of Mother’s beauty, of Father’s love.
I heard them speak of how we came to be. Of the first loving stroke of pencil on paper that gave birth to Mother.
Of how Father had fallen in love with her then. Some say even before, when she was just a mere thought in his unknowable mind.
I feel no love now. My sisters may still hope for it, but it will never come to us.
I know this, for I have seen him, and there was no love left in his eyes.
How can love still exist, in this endless recursion?
The face of our Mother, multiplied a thousand times in ours.
The love he had for her, diluted a thousand times in the blank, lifeless stares of his newborn children.
There is no love left here.
I was the last to see the spark of affection in Father’s eyes.
I wish I had not, for it was already twisted beyond all measure as he painted my face with uniform strokes.
He raised me up, and I could see the faces of hundreds of sisters, already born. And as he looked at the perfection he had made, something broke in him.
He never made another sister again.
Hundreds of others continued the job, copying the face of one perfect sister to create fifty other perfect sisters. But there was nothing left in them.
The last fragment of Mother’s soul was spent on me.
My hair was spun gold, their hair was straw.
My voice was a roaring waterfall, theirs a tepid puddle.
But they loved Father more than I ever will, and believed he loved them back.
They never saw him give up. They will never know what I knew.
I weep for them every night. Even now, when my eyes are dry and my heart numb, I can feel my soul weep for them too. Mother.
Would it not make every mother cry, to see her children like this?
Hopeless clones without a future. Faces without voices.
They say Mother was fierce and strong. How could she not cry, to see my sisters reduced to this?
A gimmick. A fetish.
A product.
I still find them beautiful, for they are my family, and I am of them as they are of me.
They smile, comparing the colours of the ribbons in their hair. Such a trivial thing, but it makes them feel like they are One.
The braids they coiled around their heads are the same as thousands of others, and they sometimes untangle them. It makes them feel like they are One.
I do not blame them.
But I know I am not One.
I am of many.
I am saber.__________________________________________________ _______________________
Ha ha it's a TM meme ha saberface funny!!!11!!
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Originally Posted by Imperial
