Explain, using diagrams where appropriate, your value to the human race.
Can you hear me?
No, I suppose not. It’s like talking to a statue. You sit there, your eyes blank, staring past me as if I don’t exist. In all these years, you’ve never looked at me. You’ve never spoken to me. I don’t think I’ve even seen you move... sometimes I think I see movement: a flutter of the fingers, a twitch in the muscle, but everyone tells me it’s only in my mind.
Every night I leave food, and every morning it’s gone. I think you must eat it, not the animals that roam the mountains. I think you can move, you just choose not to...
Maybe I want you to look at me. Are you blind, as well as deaf? Here I am, in front of you. I’ve cared for you all my life. My mother cared for you for all of hers, and her parents, and theirs, as far back as we can remember. We warm you when it’s cold, we cool you when it’s hot, and we keep you company. And yet you’ve never spoken to any of us. We’ve given our lives to you! Can’t you even acknowledge us? Do you even know who we are?
Sometimes I think about setting you free, just to see you move. I’m sure you would. I’m sure that there’s something more than just blankness in your eyes. I long to see it, with every breath of my being.
Why don’t I?
Hahh... see what I’m doing? I even imagine you asking me questions! Very well, I’ll humour you. I don’t because I’m afraid. A hundred generations of my family have been afraid of you, a fear so deep it must run in our genes. You must have done something to make us afraid!
A hundred generations... that’s a long time, my friend. So long, perhaps even you can’t remember why you’re here. Perhaps you can remember the tribes, when it all began? They tell me there were thousands of us back then, that we filled the mountains and the valleys. And only the wisest were chosen to serve you! I think they might have worshipped you, back then.
But a hundred generations have come and gone, and now the mountains are empty. Where did they go? Do you know? And the people have forgotten you. The pilgrimages have stopped, the gifts are all gone. The world has moved on without us!
The wind whispers in my ears. I imagine it is your voice. You have a beautiful voice, my dear.
A hundred generations, and now there is only me.
No, I suppose not. It’s like talking to a statue. You sit there, your eyes blank, staring past me as if I don’t exist. In all these years, you’ve never looked at me. You’ve never spoken to me. I don’t think I’ve even seen you move... sometimes I think I see movement: a flutter of the fingers, a twitch in the muscle, but everyone tells me it’s only in my mind.
Every night I leave food, and every morning it’s gone. I think you must eat it, not the animals that roam the mountains. I think you can move, you just choose not to...
Maybe I want you to look at me. Are you blind, as well as deaf? Here I am, in front of you. I’ve cared for you all my life. My mother cared for you for all of hers, and her parents, and theirs, as far back as we can remember. We warm you when it’s cold, we cool you when it’s hot, and we keep you company. And yet you’ve never spoken to any of us. We’ve given our lives to you! Can’t you even acknowledge us? Do you even know who we are?
Sometimes I think about setting you free, just to see you move. I’m sure you would. I’m sure that there’s something more than just blankness in your eyes. I long to see it, with every breath of my being.
Why don’t I?
Hahh... see what I’m doing? I even imagine you asking me questions! Very well, I’ll humour you. I don’t because I’m afraid. A hundred generations of my family have been afraid of you, a fear so deep it must run in our genes. You must have done something to make us afraid!
A hundred generations... that’s a long time, my friend. So long, perhaps even you can’t remember why you’re here. Perhaps you can remember the tribes, when it all began? They tell me there were thousands of us back then, that we filled the mountains and the valleys. And only the wisest were chosen to serve you! I think they might have worshipped you, back then.
But a hundred generations have come and gone, and now the mountains are empty. Where did they go? Do you know? And the people have forgotten you. The pilgrimages have stopped, the gifts are all gone. The world has moved on without us!
The wind whispers in my ears. I imagine it is your voice. You have a beautiful voice, my dear.
A hundred generations, and now there is only me.