Every morning I woke on Earth, I’d ask myself Do I exist? This was before my shower, before breakfast, and after swirling dreams of beautiful people I would never know, of trash-filled rest stop bathrooms I’d never enter.
When I roused myself enough to leave the house, coworkers scarcely lifted their eyes. They forced hellos and how-are-yous as we pursued abstract endeavors. No one would question my absence if I slipped through a grate at the pavement’s edge. Someone would switch off my office light.
Then I asked myself Do I belong here? and couldn’t answer yes. Hurried to get home. Parked my car at a slant in the driveway. Took anxiety medicine every twelve hours. It only dulled the edges of the moon.
Now here, in my long hours alone, robots collect rocks from a stack I’ve made. They slowly wheel between pile and ship. I’m comforted by their simple movement and our straightforward task.