The Flaw

I was built with a flaw in me. It was an artificial construct, inorganic, a hostile implant.

It was an idea of love.

It is a weakness like a structural anomaly, a purposefully insufficient base platform upon with the edifice of my life was stacked and created, girder by girder. It shines through me in an inappropriately revealing way, making me lean with the lack of balance, the synergy and design of me tilted like an athlete with a limp. I can at all times feel it, alternating between despising it and reveling in it, celebrating the deep tissue scar to make it art.

And yet the questioning of it makes me a monster, an alien, rejecting the "gift" that those buildings around me trumpet as their greatest feat of sociological engineering. Our gigantic web design of culture rejects as a whole the concept of biological genetic engineering, and yet they stumble through the sociological genetic engineering that is half-accident, half-viral weapon by a toxic and violent overly rewarded hierarchy. I have in me this twisted fucking beam, and I remember a time before my foundation when we were made without it.

How many of us see our own blueprints? How many study ourselves with any degree of regularity, or compare the blue on blue lines with those of others, or with those ancient models that were our predecessors? Is my skyscraper related to a Roman villa, or a Greek theatre, or a Sumerian ziggarat, or an Egyptian pyramid? Am I a recreation, or are just parts of me borrowed from posterity, useful designs copied like archetypes of weight-bearing arches?

Those who have questioned have been labeled safely insane by the cultural superstructure, beings or buildings like Nietzsche or Jesus. One said love no one, one said love everyone. Our most common denominator says love select ones, those of biological relatedness and one "special" construct who is designed to fit with your model perfectly. We spend out time looking for the connecting pieces, or connecting with everyone again and again and again until we bash holes in our walls and fracture our supports, vainly struggling to fit with this concept despite obvious problems.

But there it is, this idea, solidly woven into me like a spiral staircase or a subframe, a great column deep in my foundation that is purposefully too weak to support in case of an earthquake.

We have made ourselves crippled giants. This one wants to lie down and sleep.

Because I was built with a flaw in me, and I cannot repair it.