1 ) Growth
Dec. 1st, 2013 12:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
antiexistenceWritten: 12/01/2013
Title: Growth
Author: Psyche
Words: 267
1 ) - Beginning?
- Beginnings.
These are the pains of life that end in death.
It begins with a preconceived notion. It starts with a concept, swallowed down as bitter truth before it has its chance at fruition. It is a seed planted deep within a child's hopes and dreams, and it will surely grow to mangle their fragility.
It is a beginning.
These are the existences we birthed from a necessity, and it is with great pains that I greet them. I tap my finger against the glass of the incubation unit, passing each with an aging woman's faltering gait. Absorbing the minute details of every embryo, the six hundred sixty-five blastocysts still treading through the third week of their gestational age, I mutter words both holy and sacrilege, slipping between them with ease.
It is fine. He does not pay me for my peculiarity.
The connection gear offers its prognosis, the likely outcome of their current standing. A quarter will never live beyond gestation, a handful will cease at birth, and the rest... The rest will continue past the age where my influence dwindles. The rest is not in the report.
But they will tell you how I always know. How it is easy to predict the end.
It begins with a preconceived notion, a thought of loneliness sparking across neurons. It grows into a fear, cementing the once pliable concept of loss. Of rejection. It will choke down a child's hopes and dreams, mangle their fragility, and it is at this pinnacle moment (whether they are two or twenty-six) that they will die.
I pass over the details and submit my findings.
It is fine. It is perfectly fine.
Title: Growth
Author: Psyche
Words: 267
1 ) - Beginning?
- Beginnings.
These are the pains of life that end in death.
It begins with a preconceived notion. It starts with a concept, swallowed down as bitter truth before it has its chance at fruition. It is a seed planted deep within a child's hopes and dreams, and it will surely grow to mangle their fragility.
It is a beginning.
These are the existences we birthed from a necessity, and it is with great pains that I greet them. I tap my finger against the glass of the incubation unit, passing each with an aging woman's faltering gait. Absorbing the minute details of every embryo, the six hundred sixty-five blastocysts still treading through the third week of their gestational age, I mutter words both holy and sacrilege, slipping between them with ease.
It is fine. He does not pay me for my peculiarity.
The connection gear offers its prognosis, the likely outcome of their current standing. A quarter will never live beyond gestation, a handful will cease at birth, and the rest... The rest will continue past the age where my influence dwindles. The rest is not in the report.
But they will tell you how I always know. How it is easy to predict the end.
It begins with a preconceived notion, a thought of loneliness sparking across neurons. It grows into a fear, cementing the once pliable concept of loss. Of rejection. It will choke down a child's hopes and dreams, mangle their fragility, and it is at this pinnacle moment (whether they are two or twenty-six) that they will die.
I pass over the details and submit my findings.
It is fine. It is perfectly fine.
