"Your machinery is too much for me."

A beautiful woman once inquired if I am indeed a sociopath.
Her deep brown eyes were accented by her dark eyebrows, raised sadly.
At the time, I wasn't sure what she was looking for. Her eyes constantly scanned me,
waiting for an event to trigger, to burst out from the abyss.

I came to realize, that she was searching me for a semblance of humanity.
For a tiny spark of emotion, for evidence that I wasn't the cold, calculating individual I mask myself as.

I don't think I ever gave her that evidence. She gave up searching, and to say she was alone in this defeat would be a lie. My mother battled this with my father for a long while. And when I inherited this syndrome, she could no longer bear to pry.

"Your machinery is too much for me." Her last words to me still echo in my skull. The pixels dragging themselves across the canvas in my mind. My machinery? The modern man and woman are anything but human, and yet I am labeled as a machine?

We are all machines, as we aren't. As our hard drives click, and our hearts beat, as our servos whine, and our joints crack... We walk the
Earth all searching for humanity in one another. Ever contributing to the slow metamorphosis into the inhuman.

I am human. Fleshy, warm and soft. But, are you?