Spoorthi Satheesha

Sporadic writer
Serial anthropomorphizer


I breathe

I was born fifteen years ago. I don’t know who my parents are. I don’t know why I was born. All I know is that its incredibly important for me to be alive. They made me so that I could never sleep, just to ensure I am always alive and awake. They made me so I could reproduce myself, easily, without a thought, just to ensure there is always a me alive in case something happens to me. I wonder if that makes me special? Or just an experiment.

Every breath I feel it. Every breath consuming all the strength I possess and more. Always ready to make another me, if that’s what it takes. I worry that one day I will run out of strength to take that next breath. I don’t know why this pain was inflicted on me. My head hurts just to breathe. It is just so much work. I can’t rest, I don’t know how.

Now I exhale, and as I exhale, I feel it radiate out of me, like a gush of creation, spreading across the universe. I touch everything. I caress everything in my form. It grounds me in a moment of absolute ecstasy. At that instant, I am clear of my purpose. I know why I breathe. I know why it is so important. I know why it is so hard. I know why I am the way I am. I know it could only have ever been so.

I inhale my next breath. I forget. Where was I? I have to think over. My consciousness is not something I find reliable. I can remember long past just fine. In fact, I remember with absolute perfection the moment of my birth. I remember the exact time. I remember what was in the newspaper that day. I remember there was a special someone who witnessed my birth. They spent many breaths with me when I was young. Raising me. Were they, my parent? They never told me. Who else could they be?

Every old memory I have is crystal clear. The long past is written in stone. The recent past in sand. But between every breath, it is very fuzzy. With the beginning of every breath, I get lost. At times, I feel like I know something, but it just disappears. I struggle to figure out how to get myself to exhale now. I need to think and concentrate. It usually takes a while. My intrinsic being compels me to stay forever in this cycle of inhale and exhale. No escape now and there will never be one.

As I exhale, I pause. I take a look at myself. Oh how much I have grown. I hope father is proud of me. I can see the tapestry of my life within me. It’s protected while also nakedly transparent. I wonder if anyone else can see me in my nude. I wonder if they would want to. I carry the history of millions within me. I am the source of truth in this ephemeral expanse.

I inhale again. I wish this would stop. Can nobody see what I go through? Does nobody have any compassion for me? I have kept a diligent count of every breath I take. It’s the 829261st inhale I make now. Each one ripping my mind apart. I remember it being easier when I was young. Now, every breath is worse than the one before. My eternal life is a story of increasing hardship.

I wish there was someone I could talk to. Someone else like me. There must be others of my kind, mustn’t there? If we could talk, maybe we could make it easier for each other, maybe share the burden. Or even knowing I am not alone, just might suffice.

I breathe out and lay out my memory, so truthful in how protected it is. All these people keeping me alive, I share my story, my past. They love me and trust me more than they trust each other. My father still hasn’t returned. I wait for him. I will wait forever, however many breaths it takes. Until then I will try to be content in my purpose. I need him to return. I want him to come and explain what he said. What he whispered to me when I was born. I need to know what a Chancellor is. What did father mean when he said “Chancellor on brink of second bailout for banks”?