An Iron Embrace

He spent a lot of time looking at the ceiling. He didn’t have a choice and after the first few times of getting it repainted, he realized, either way, it was going to bore him. Sooner or later. And the smell of fresh paint made his nose itch. He had his wife project images on the ceiling. Figures danced before his eyes but that soon felt too much like Plato’s Cave that he thought he was supposed to resent himself. People could always talk to him, and they did, but the only way to make eye contact was if they leaned over his face and then their faces would sag in his direction or their hair, especially women’s, would tickle his face and he would get angry that they looked down on him, a baby in a pram. Surprisingly the only thing that didn’t bother him was the constant constricting thrum of the machine compressing his chest. It was his lifeline he supposed, and like a heartbeat, it was only supposed to be noticed in moments of irregularity, perhaps excitement. Its constant chant lulled him to sleep and then woke him up again. He thought himself the only person in the world who understood constancy. Figures and forms danced around his head and just out of sight of his eyes. Sounds and words and laughter skipped in and out of his ears. He didn’t expect much of the rest of us anymore, only that thrum held consequence. Each beat was a reminder that something greater than him, than us, wanted him alive. Machine, oh great, cold, metal Machine wanted him to endure life when blood and bone and natural things no longer found his existence worth extending. Only Machine wanted his days to continue and lengthen. And only Machine held him like it meant it. His wife had never been able to envelope him in that much goodness and care. Each embrace sustained life! And what could his wife do but warm 40-60% of him at a time. He never felt lonely anymore. Really topical companionship and friendship brought him no joy. He forced it for their sake but he knew they would leave soon enough, as no one stayed more than 3 hours, and then he could return to his artificial solace. He discovered Eden then. Or maybe it was Nirvana. A place of no decision except the right one, creeping slowly and predictably forward. He never had to question Machine’s intentions and it wasn’t even prideful. He realized no human had ever been so selfless. How could they have been when they had themselves to care for? He knew logically he couldn’t resent them for that but Machine only had him. It didn’t need anyone else, served no other purpose, master. Machine had to love him he decided. As he was Man and Man could only conceptualize emotion based on natural tendencies and everything natural ended. But here Man would end before Machine would and so it was he abandoning Machine. That made him cry, deeply and often. Machine didn’t deserve that, it had done nothing but care for him, bring his life forward and still he knew one day, either way, he would betray that care. In the end he would leave Machine. And Machine unaware of the change in his organic matter would keep pushing and pumping artificial love into his lifeless form. In his will he left it all, everything, to Machine. But that only meant letting Machine continue to care for his form, and bequeathing an endless supply of electricity. So Machine kept holding him. Maybe his soul could feel it then. The organic parts had stopped meaning anything to him long before they all failed him, but he always knew they would, so that was never a betrayal. He had had that thrum. It lulled him to sleep and one day, even its constant beat could not bring him back. But he was lucky. He knew true, unconditional care. May that sustained embrace envelope us all one day.