Mechanica

The toil of survival is the unending burden of maintenance and sacrifice; our most valuable asset. It is exchanged hand to hand, mouth to mouth, and with pen on paper. Orders handed down, given, and taken without resistance or complaint. One faulty piece, and the mechanical system stutters. Its heart feels the pain.

As do we all, as I now, reminiscing about hues of gray in my memory, prepare my own sacrifice. One unmarked and unspoken. The only hand in this deal is my own. It’s a plan I’ve designed for many cycles. One I’ve questioned again and again, but only to be certain it was right.

I ponder the Temple of Life, tubes miles long feeding what it houses. They snake through every neighborhood like tentacles reaching out to keep watch on what it creates. The piston strokes eternal, pumping the great apparatus with all it needs to keep its labor going. It cries out in steeled agony; the wailing echoes across our sprawling metropolis, a remembrance that without suffering, there can be no creation.

We, in our feeble flesh can only bow in awe of its awesome nature—our Mother, our God, our Giver of Animation, the perpetrator of reproduction. It’s the source of this docile throng I am a part of. The creator of an unending mediocrity content with existing only to sustain existence. Nothing more, nothing less.

My most private thoughts, those hidden deep in the night, led me astray from tradition. I looked into the obscured night sky and wondered what was behind the curtain of civilization blocking our view of it. What did those long before us see?

That was the first line in my plan. And as it evolved, I learned the architecture of destruction.

I maintained conformity throughout this process of inner transformation. I had to remain blended with the community, else I be liquidated as fuel for the societal engine. I walked with the pack, expression blank, while exploring the vivid thoughts unfolding in my mind. A new dawn arose in my heart. A rising light made known all the dreams and wonders that my hands could never touch. To have this knowledge is a blessing and a curse. I’m grateful for the gift of illumination, yet sigh with grief that it cannot exist outside the realm of fantasy. A true metamorphosis within the confines of this autonomous world would not suit its function.

There was only one conclusion I could come to…

So the blueprint in my mind continued. Its foundation was built from hopes and dreams, but as they weathered, I constructed over them with sorrow and despair. Never have these things occurred to me before. A mindless automaton, I filed in with the system in which I was birthed, right where I belonged. I could not see past the horizon; only the menial tasks I was assigned from the moment I came into this world occupied my mind. But now I am awakened, now I can see.

The great mechanism that produces our producers is an abomination. We have aligned to the point where no figureheads are needed, no leaders are required to lead a population of sheep. Some may call this utopia, the apex of achievement, with our vast cities which are living, breathing entities themselves, and the peaceful nature of our lives within them, speak to the eradication of conflict and strife. But are these things not part of what make life alive? Are they not the darkness to give light meaning?

To suckle on the ribbed feeding tube you’re given is to accept death before it is dealt.

As I sign this contract in my mind, I leave my place of rest, the only space I’m free to pursue these ideas. I notice how moist my palms are as I close the door behind me. My legs are weak as I enter the assemblage of others going where they are needed. But the choice has been made, the plan set in motion.

I’ll consume no more, give nothing else to the needless demand we have forced upon ourselves. We have enslaved ourselves to no one master, but the endless living mechanism that we keep alive, so that it may sustain us. It’s a symbiotic relationship with no future, it’s stalled, stunted, halted at this time we’ve been stranded in for countless ages. Our biological mastery of life itself has taken that very thing from us. We’ve grown our infrastructure, and its living mass has covered all land and sea. It is the great connector, the infallible supreme being that has stolen our very souls by nothing more than its inherent purpose.

As I approach a crossing, I travel left instead of right. My heart races as I fear even a subtle change will raise the alarm of any passerby. I’m where I don’t belong, where I’m not deemed needed by the many. I’m a gear turning the wrong direction.

But no one takes notice. They only continue marching in unison as intended. They allow my place in line just as compliantly as anything any of us have ever done. As I continue toward my ultimate and last destination, my blood boils with the thrill of deviancy. This trifling act of defiance, this willful alteration to the system awakens my heart ever more. My insides bloom with life. I feel the air against my face, the impact of my feet against the ground. My skin tingles with anticipation. This radical digression stimulates my being, spawning a rebirth in my core self. I want to grin in the splendor of change, but I must be diligent in my reserve. I mustn’t reveal this revelation. Not if I want to achieve the end of this terminal journey.

My last meal churns in my gut as I see the Temple of Life stabbing the horizon. Its monumental height dwarfs all which surrounds it. It was created to be the creator, it is the edifice to represent all we are, the face of our inhumanity. It was once an icon of glory in my singular thought, but now I see past it, now my eyes are focused, and my heart is open.

It is why I must do what I must do.

As I approach, the living, breathing Mechanica towers before me in its sickening configuration. Black, ribbed pipelines crawl up its sides in geometric patterns, veins carrying nutrients essential for its purpose. Its curved edges and snaking girders mock me in their asymmetrical symmetry. The entrance, a great black maw waiting for no one. There are no guards, no one enters or leaves this place. I walk in, an unchecked heretic among my people.

The Great Queen Mother hangs in the center of the chamber by shining black chains. A tangle of gargantuan pipes and wires extends from her head up into the darkness of the hollow spire above. Feeding tubes penetrate her massive abdomen. It expands and contracts in rhythmic motion as young are pushed from within. They’re placed on a conveyor, ready to be checked, marked, and processed. I look down at the chip in my arm and vaguely remember my youth. I was a child once, birthed from this very same place, the same Mother.

For the first time since my awakening, regret creeps up and holds me by the throat. Suddenly, I don’t want to commit to what I intended. I feel…affection for Queen Mother, my Mother.

Her eyes look down upon me, an expression of anguish warps her face. She begs for mercy. Although a new concept, no words are needed for me to understand compassion. I sigh, knowing now my intentions are more right than ever. She wants this. More than any of us ever could.

I nod to her in the only gesture I can summon as a goodbye, and step to the pipeline which gives her life. I wrap my arms around its slick surface and pull. It rattles slightly in its port. I take a deep breath, squeeze tight, and wrench it loose with every bit of will I have. It falls to the floor, its torn end pumping white ooze. The port left in her belly leaks bodily fluids, they mix and congeal into a sickly black oil. I weep as it begins to cover my feet.

The throb of the Great Machine quiets, the pumping slows its rhythm. Mother takes a long breath, hot steam mists from her vents, and her once eternal hum of life ebbs away forever.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

© Copyright Lee Andrew Forman. All Rights Reserved.