Michael Moore
Stories (2)
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What makes one human?
The automaton. A product of thorough minds, one though complex in appearance may in truth be simple in function... In my dream I sat upon a park bench, watching my world go by. There were birds made of iron, gliding with ease amongst the clouds, and squirrels of intricate design, crawling within the foliage. Between the trees stood a man, one of artificial design. He appeared to possess no purpose, standing out in his environment he held no natural place other than to stand where he was designated to do so. I watched him examine a limb which was of a higher quality than the rest. It appeared to have been replaced as a product of some trauma, a useful adaptation. A customizable enigma. This creation appeared almost human, from the product of my gaze only further questions arose... I awoke to contemplate my own creation, and what this dream may mean. For we all possess our own adaptations to combat trauma, that of which may even set us apart from the world we reside in. Though from the perspective of an outsider we are all made of the same elements. What makes one human? Is it product of self awareness? Or design?
By Michael Moore6 years ago in Poets
Crystalline White
I dreamt I met a woman. I arose to find myself in a cave of white rock, an immense chasm of crystalline structures, devoid of all color. From amidst the void appeared a creature of meek stature, starved from all pleasure, for sustenance it went searching. A pearly eye searched the negative plains in which it resided for anything other than nothing. My direction soon became the possessor of this newfound sad eye of grey. The creature inhaled roughly and brought itself to a staggering run. Though weak it may seem the creatures velocity was rather impressive, seemingly impossible. As the creature's figure grew within inches I winced, anticipating a devastating blow. Despite my anxieties it blew right on past me. For I am only a mere specter in the realm of crystal white. I turned to witness a conflict of olympic proportions, a great struggle driven by one's own will to survive. To feast. A colorfully adorned figure of great stature met the condemned creation head on. Skillfully she, with the ease of great experience, outmatched the creatures efforts. For their conflict lasted a millennia, a purgatorial existence resided within a crystalline womb. From whence they were born they shall be born again. From this never ending conflict arose a clear victor. Thus she cried. For another millennia, alone, she would survive.
By Michael Moore6 years ago in Poets
