If my emotions didn’t fray the cuffs of my shirts, I’m certain I wouldn’t be cognizant of the heart I wear on my sleeves. The hollow, vapid thump-thump that ricochets in my ears when I’m unable to swallow my masticated mania is the only reminder that my heart is beating. 

The fact that the most basic human part is only obvious in the extrema of life is, by nature, paradoxical. When I clutch my chest, an echo is all that keeps me from reaching deeper.

To rip out my heart for proof of life would ensure death. 

Is it so crazy to crave to see the very crystal of my core in order to believe in its conscience? I can’t find any reason to believe in my own humanity without evidence that this essentially mechanic mystery is separating me from machine. 

I know I’m not a robot, but that ingrained message seems robotic. I know I’m not a robot, but the idea of being human is somehow worse.

Human, just human. 

My heart, brain, and the bridges between them known as morals and consciousness are the only things that guarantee my thoughts belong to the same vessel as everyone else. That’s sad to think about. It’s sad that two of those three are found in many, many other living things; it’s even sadder that only one thing makes me different.

My melancholia manifests, however, in the knowledge that this one difference, this one idiosyncrasy of global biodiversity, is found in billions of others. While my heart verifies my humanity, how can I be certain my consciousness is guaranteeing that I am more than just human. 

What makes me Linus?

Sure, my name would be an easy answer, but countless others share it. What makes me me?

My appearance is mine, but my seven doppelgangers that science says exists beg to differ. My writing style is arguably unique, but my dramatic doppelganger surely exists as well. My humor is replicable; my mannerisms are replaceable. 

What makes me me if all I am is just shared singularities of other single souls? If I’m no different than any other human, what separates a human from a robot? Are we just machines with morals?

If I were to plunge for my pulse, would the pinks and poppies of my pith be the same color as everyone else’s? 

If I could see my heart, would I realize I’m what I want to be or what I’m worried I am?