I am a mimic Of color And glass shard

I am a broken mirror Reclecting every one I’ve ever loved

I am a soldier Using every battle tactic I’ve been thought To survive the world that’s been crafted for me

I am a painting I have all their favorite colors Yet not one shade of mine

I am a field Of a thousand different flowers Not one do I get to pick

I am a farmer Weeds grow between the seeds of crops That I did not plant

I am a thousand colored scarf Woven with needles That I have not held

I’m a mosiac of everything I’ve ever seen And everything they want me to be But no part of my mosiac do I call mine

We are all alike, in small ways Things that were passed down in history Things forever-living Like sunrays We are combined Stitched from mosaics passed down Each thread being cut into you Small pieces being made new Something different But still the same A mosaic different Yet composed the way the other came Stitch by stitch Makes something new The same template used To create you

My mother’s hands My Fathers fine hair My sister’s love of adventure I say’ I love you’ easily Because you said it without censure

I fight for every underdog Because of all you bullies I find beauty in a stone Because you showed me truly

All my sobs and tears Because he taught me how to cry I saw how much I hurt you And so it hurts to lie

Beautiful mosaics we are

• more beautiful with age As patterns grow more intricate And colours start to fade

I look around at those who’ve gone And find they are still here In the mirror, in my heart Every action brings them near.

“That wasn’t rhetorical, my tender tadpoles. I am asking a real question and I want a real answer,” Dr. Lovelace said.

The ethics professor pranced before the auditorium of first year students as if to pounce. Avoiding eye contact at all costs, the students squirmed in their seats. Janeway opted to look out of one the wide classroom windows onto the maroon hills of the Mirrīkh University campus. With a rounded belly, shiny bald head, and silly skinny legs, Lovelace reminded Janeway of a bird, like one of those robins she remembered from her vid books. She pictured Lovelace fluttering in the pink sky. Embolden, a student raised his head.

“There’s a brave soul,” Lovelace said, “Sally forth, Don Quixote.”

“It’s Thompson, sir. Thompson J. Thompson,” Thompson said.

Lovelace cocked his head to one side like a great quizzical bird. Janeway stifled a giggle.

“Is it a trick question, sir?” Thompson asked. “Androids cannot be more human than humans obviously, right?”

“Thompson remember there are no stupid questions except for that one. Next.”

More students shifted uncomfortably. Janeway wondered if she should have taken Advanced Flower Arrangement instead of Intro to Ethics. Tentatively, another student raised his hand.

“Anyway I think if I understand your question Prof. Lovelace Androids are more like human than actual humans because so many people were involved in the evolution of robots from engineers to biochemists to Gene Roddenberry and Isaac Asimov. The hopes and dreams of humankind culminates in it’s ultimate technological achievement. The idea of the modern—“ Nat said slowly and began to build up speed.

“Stop!” Lovelace said raising his hand. “If someone brings up Modern Day Promenthues I’ll start throwing chairs. Next!”

Stifling a giggle, Janeway clapped a hand over her mouth. The few hands that had been on the brink of raising to give an answer evaporated. Janeway thought about her friend Malachy. He was taking a gap year to recycle toxic waste on a superfund site on OldeEarth. She couldn’t wait to tell him about Prof. Cuckoo Bird tonight. The young woman next to her nudged her foot. Janeway startled.

“I hope we are disturbing your daydreaming, chickadee,” Prof. Lovelace said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Sorry, Prof. Lovelace, I was thinking of my home back on Encedalus. Couple of years ago, we have a murder case involving blunt force trauma and arson of two Androids. The case was difficult in many ways. Fire and water ravaged the crime scene. There was some trace DNA on the suspects’ clothes. But the police couldn’t link the suspected killers to the victims because Android skin is lab grown from orchid DNA. Hunderds of thousands of Androids share the same DNA, you know. But the crime scene techs did find dog’s cremains with intact DNA on the suspect’s clothes. The murdered victims’ dog’s remains are on this monster’s clothes when he claimed to have never been in the victims’ house, but how else could he have gotten their dead dog ashes on his clothes. The victims had had an Australian shepherd puppy. The forsenic team could match the dog’s unique DNA. It made me think the Androids are more like human than humans because the Androids got a pet and mourned him and placed him in a pride of place inside their home. And a piece of shit human knocked over its ashes on purpose when he was terrorizing them before the murder. With their abilities Androids could be anything. Flippin’ they could be our overseers. We are humans but Androids embody humanity.”

Prof. Lovelace fluffed up with surprise.

Are we truly unique, or mere echoes,
Carrying fragments of those we’ve met,
Lives entangled like threads in a woven glow,
Patterns stitched from moments we can’t forget.

Are we each a flame, a single spark alight,
Or shadows cast from those who came before,
Reflections in a window, flickering bright,
Pieces of the past we can’t ignore.

In the eyes of a friend, do we see our own?
In the touch of a lover, are we reborn?
Are we the sum of those we’ve ever known,
A mosaic of lives, each one worn?

The laughter of a sibling, the sigh of a mother,
Whispers of mentors, the cry of a friend,
All dance in our veins, like no other—
Woven into us, from start to end.

Perhaps we’re not singular, but rather a blend,
Of everyone we’ve touched, and who’s touched us too,
A reflection of those who’ve crossed our path,
Becoming their stories, just as they do.

So, are we unique? Or a patchwork divine,
A masterpiece made of faces and time?
Perhaps the answer’s both, entwined—
For we are ourselves, yet theirs, in kind.

Am I a vibrant mosaic, intricately crafted from the countless souls I have cherished, even if only for a fleeting heartbeat?

Each tiny moment, from the simplest smile to the most profound decisions, weaves together to shape my essence.

Or am I merely attempting to fill an aching void with the echoes of their voices, swirling around in my mind? Did I genuinely love them as they were, or was I merely enamored with the ideals and fantasies I conjured about them in my imagination?

I ask the angles as I think of the many ways I have changed my beliefs to fit someone else The countless The endless effort

Are we truly unique or are we just mosaics of every person ever known?

It’s a kick in the guts when you realise that you’ve never had an original thought in your entire life. Not once. Nada. I am like tiny shards of glass that have been glued back together. Glued so tight that you might not notice at first. But when you look hard enough you see.

She’s just like her Mother Father Brother Sister Best friend

I am complete. And completely empty.

A faded carbon copy of all those who surround me

cold days. time feels fast, yet slow. people seem to slowly change. i’ve started realizing the small changes, or maybe changes that have always existed yet i’ve never found them so somehow strange. everyone seems to have become monotonous.

my neighbor Anna, with her strawberry blonde curls and big blue eyes, her unique sense of humor and patience is slowly turning into something i’ve never seen from her. she’s very quiet now, like the rest of everyone.

my sister, who’s always been very outgoing and uproarious. now seems to be almost silent, mundane too. only speaks when asked a question. she sits alone and will almost be lost in her thoughts, swallowed up by this void of consciousness that is overtaking everyone’s uniqueness.

my dad, he seems to have became less aware of his presence and surroundings. he’s always been creative, fun, full of the life he is living in. but now he stays silent, his words an empty estimated echoe i long for.

i’ve noticed many people turn to this silence, they aren’t innocuous. but, it feels as if i’m just surrounded by the same person. and soon, i may become this shadow as they are.

one person, yet, many. slowly, morfing into the same loss of personality, and dissimulation. are we all becoming the same, or are we similar?

Do you know me? Do I know you? Have You seen me before in the stars? Have I seen you before in the moon? When have you lived here? Where have I lived then? Your soul, made of stardust My soul, made of moonlight I think you have lived here before I think I have lived here before Unique, you and I Made of others, me and you Puzzle of souls Mosaic of hearts Others in us The two of us in others I knew you before I still know you now Puzzle of hearts Mosaic of souls How beautiful is it To live again

Am I myself? I fear my emotions betray all those of whom I may be composed.

I am my parents when anger engulfs me. I am my friends when in their company. I learned from my teachers the worth of myself, some taught me to work and achieve, others determined I was not worth the effort. I find myself curious in moments of solitude. Am I an individual? Have I been making my own choices and living a life for myself? Or rather, like the many shards of a broken mirror, reflections of all those I’ve met?

Which would I rather be the truth?