The horror of Frankenstein's monster is reality.
The individual is no longer just that.
Identity is now no longer our choice.
Yet we repeat the mantra.
“we are free, I am me, and no one changes that.”
It humors me.
To think we can skirt the hands of fate.
To think we are truly our own design.
That are morals, ethics, quarks and all, are truly forged by our own hands.
To believe our beings deserve appraisal and renown when we don't even try!
To think we are all special and each are own.
To think we know what's best for us and no one could truly decide for us.
We think ourselves all made out and just.
Yet we gaze no deeper into our humanity then what skims the surface.
Not even knowing that we don't know we fear ourselves.
By product of the goliath of society.
Little dolls strung together by puppet masters behind steel veils.
Slaves to men ten leagues ahead of us.
Slaves to ourselves.
Slaves to consciousness.
Is that what life is?
Is death truly the only freedom?
Or even in passing will deity's bind us once again in clads of steel and thought.
The enigma of consciousness, always so evasive.
Perhaps for good reason.
Even the most steel willed men can not face the horror of truth.