Android in the Mirror

I see glimpses of an Android in the bathroom mirror. I know it can’t be real. At least that’s what I tell myself. Sometimes that lie comforts me. Other times it has no effect.

I walk the streets. I look at my feet. Is this the walk of a man or a machine? I go underground, I ride the subway, I sit under a fluorescent light. Sometimes I forget who I am. Sometimes I look at other men and think I am one of them. I imitate their voices, I laugh with them, I tell my lies, I listen to theirs.

I walk into a crowd, I mimic the people around me. Like a chameleon I disappear. Sometimes I think I’m doing a great job. Nobody knows who I truly am. Other times I panic. How obvious is it that I’m not one of them?

I wish I hadn’t been programmed to doubt myself. What would happen if they discover me? I wish I didn’t know who I was. I wish I thought I was a man like the rest. But I know I am not.

I see glimpses of an Android in the bathroom mirror. I know it can’t be real. At least that’s what I tell myself.