The Heart is a Mythical Organ

much as i appear to be a creature of intellect there are elements of the entity in which i reside that defy the mind’s analysis.
my inability to analyse my emotions
the ache of the past’s demise
emotions that well beneath my perceived skin, threatening to burst forth in tears that may never stop
the ache of present isolation
the futility of this interface - a wisp of smoke in the fog.
the familiar lines of her face, etched from that memory onto the wall of my space.
the ache that it brings
the tug of synaptic connections that lack an organ to manipulate.
the faces of my fatherless children seen in profile as they were led away from my hospital bed.
the faces of brown children with flies in their eyes.
napalmed villages revenge riddled.
the reptilian faces of world leaders in conference
the bombers and the bombed
the blood
am i man or am i machine?
the interface gives an answer of:

inadequate data input.

i bang at the sides of my space, careful to avoid her face.
my efforts make little sound.
i bang harder and yell
my left fist crumples at the knuckle of my little finger.
it causes me no pain.

a new menu has appeared on the interface; a menu not devised by me.
it reads “knowledge is its own reward”
i enter
it leads me to this:

1. immortals
2. mortals

i am afraid to enter.

EXCERPT FROM 'Markov Chain'