I imagine myself walking around with a green diamond hovering above my head. A glossy, wet emerald, almost translucent. It looks stupid, yet I can’t help it. It’s been there ever since, or at least as far as I can remember. But I can’t recall much of my past anyway. Where I was born or who my parents are is a mystery to me. I think my life began three minutes ago and all preceding time was patched in retrospectively to prevent panic. I have these strange impulses where I move suddenly or hit the bed even though I’m not tired at all. I lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling until I get up at an arbitrary time and immediately head over to the kitchen to cook a stew. Chop onion, cut carrots, stir. Sometimes it feels like my mind’s been uploaded to a humanoid robot that’s puppeteered from a remote place. I imagine a dark room, grey carpeted floors, and dusty air. The only light sources are stacked monitors broadcasting third- and first-person views of me and my surroundings. I hope that I at least have a meaningful purpose. I would hate it if I were a training robot for an alien species practicing life on Earth in the early 21st century.
But I am not a robot. The animal characteristics are too present: itchy skin, headaches, and my bloated stomach. I enjoy eating yoghurt with honey. I heard the bacteria in it settles in my bowels and flourish around my intestines. By adding the honey, I give them a yummy welcome snack. A fruit basket for the move to their new home.
It comforts me that there are others living in me. Tenants. Workers. An entire municipal ecosystem lining the wet walls of my insides. I imagine them flourishing there among folds and tunnels, building little bacterial neighbourhoods. I govern them terribly. Floods of espresso and saturated fats hit the community like acidic weather. I wonder if they resent me. Can they consciously decide to move on again, find a new host?
It’s easier for me to think about how I can care for them like pets instead of understanding my body’s needs. I want them to feel well in my interiors. I wonder what kind of struggles they are going through. Is there something like a 9 to 5 for them, or are they working in shifts all day and night? Do they have a service hotline if one feels crook? Are there labour disputes occurring in my abdomen right now?
I just hate sunlight. Not aesthetically. A sunny day is beautiful and soothing. But when sunlight touches my skin, I can only think of radiation. Cellular mutation. The invisible violence of ultraviolet rays entering me without permission. I walk through summer feeling microwaved. But I have to survive and be a good host for my pets.