Why does a room always feel colder the fuller it is? You would think that with more people generating more body heat, all mingling together, would create a warm atmosphere. Not here. Not to us. Is it our cold hearts that give us this quality? Or is it just because we’ve been shutting out warmth for so long? I don’t like either answer, if they are answers at all. I don’t like to think of what we’ve become, what drove us to this, what we pushed ourselves inch by precious inch towards. We can’t get those inches back. Or should I say miles. I am unsure how you would measure it, although some professor would know. We rely on them to know.

We know nothing of this. Why we are so cold, why we haven’t already frozen to our meagre deaths. Are we a human experimentation? Or some mutated play-toy for them. We don’t eat but I’d like to. I’d like to contain warmth, to share it with any other human being out there. I’d like to love like they do. They don’t even know how envious I – how envious we are of them- of their lifestyle. We don’t talk but if we did, they’d tell me. Tell me what I already know. That although we were once human, we are now past that landmark. How much would it take to step over that thin line once more? I’m not really dead yet anyway.

What if things had been different for me? What if I had been a survivor, there had to be some, right? Cyrus can’t be that ruthless. Would I be behind that pane of glass right now(the only thing which separates us from the rest of the world) with them. Shivering with fear, but engrossed, always wanting to know more, unsatisfied until then. Wasn’t I like that once. I want to become that person again. Where did my former self disappear to? I wish that they could see it now, to know who I was at least. To know that I was once human, which is more than I can say today. I at least want them to know that I exist, not just as a pile of rubble left in the aftermath, but a person. At least in memory.

Maybe none of the others think like this, perhaps they cannot contain thoughts at all, although you would never be able to tell from the outside. After all they haven’t distinguished me- or any of them- from the rest. To them we are all the same, repetitive, sullen, and obsessive. Monsters some say. I beg to differ. I would if I had the ability. If I had the ability, which h is what? Speech, actual movement, to be able to communicate with my fellow person. Human ability.

I’m actually quite intrigued by them, but the dust in my broken skull that maybe once was a brain, can no longer comprehend facts. So I take in the moment, as interesting as it may be, and then forget. But this is before I’ve forgotten completely. Some of us have already forgotten everything, within a second we turn from whatever we are, to limping corpses struggling for air. I don’t want to become like that. But it will happen. I know it, I’ve seen it too many times before. Those ones are disposed of. I mildly, without care, wonder where they went. I don’t believe that it could be any better than in here so I’m trying not to prepare myself for too much, I don’t desire some sense of twisted freedom. Because to tell the truth would be to say that I don’t want to leave. Or rather, I don’t want to become one of them on the outside. If I were to tell the truth it would be that I want to become a human again. To do that I will need to be more than either.