Clyde hasn’t felt like writing much lately, but he has to because his therapists tell him its good for his chronic depression. Which in Clyde’s opinion is bullshit because how can you write when you think everything you spew is garbage and you hate yourself? Also, yes, Clyde has therapists, plural. One for each neuroses. Clyde don’t half ass crazy, you got to commit to that shit. Hell, half the reason Clyde sees therapists is just to have it on the record that he is in fact mynock shit balls cray-cray. Certified. Clyde also has to write because of these damn publishers and if he doesn’t write every day, they take his Moneycumasaurus away. You’ll mother fucking see depressed then. Probably the violent kind. MONEUCUMASAURUS NOOOOOO!!!! Something like that anyway. Moneycumasaurus. I cannot say or express that enough.
It’s not easy being a clone. I mean, it’s easy in the physical necessity sense. You come into the world with a general purpose, you get housing, food, “friends” and “family” pretty much on lock straight outta the tube. To any rando norm, that would seem to solve all of life's problems. There is no “what is my purpose in life” bullcrap, that purpose is murder and good for you, you're hella good at it. To any creature with a fraction of higher brain function however, you can see the issue. “What happens when the killing is done”? That is the main issue. It’s not all of it, I mean, I’m generalizing, but its where we can start talking.
There is a great clone author who wrote books on clonexistentialism. That’s pronounced Clone-zi-stentialism, by the way, not clone-exi-stentialism, you ass, don’t be a prick. Well, there are two, because Clonez Cloneka is popular as well, but I could never relate to being turned into a Quosit. Now a Corellian wine-bee on the other hand… There is this book from Clonemus called the Cloneger (also yes, all clones insert clone into damn near everything because what the fuck else do we have? And I’m sad again.) In the story, a clone goes to Space Algeria, or is it Space Morocco? And he shoots a Gungan and feels generally indifferent about it and nobody cares. Point is, they exist and they are very similar and have an equal number of Gungan Ex-pats on them because once again, fuck Naboo.
This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me because I feel nothing.
On the surface, you can sit there and think “yeah, and?” Because pretty much everyone can relate to killing a gungan and feeling nothing because we all hate them, have probably secretly murdered a few, and in the end, a shrug was all that was called for. But think about it from a clone’s perspective. Here you are, a retired clone, all alone on some outer rim world that more than likely, you have razed at some point in your career. Your days of genocide and jackboots are well behind you. Your account is full of credits and your boudoir full of fly Alderaanian ladies eager to experiment, but your blood calls out to you. Your one true purpose in life, what you were bred for, is no longer a skill the galaxy or your empire need from you. Life is emptiness. Writhing in endless pleasures becomes rote to the point of tedium. Walking on a beach, the city beside you begging to be set ablaze, you see a Gungan. The thought starts slowly. An old enemy. Joy came from his demise. You see his idiotic walk, you think, perhaps, just once more, I can feel that joy, a fleeting moment of life. A change, no matter how small to break the cycle.
You hear his voice as he draws near and addresses you:
“Hisa der friendo, Messa..” You don’t even notice yourself do it. It is pure muscle memory. Your blaster pistol, that you still carry out of habit is in his ribs and discharged. The slimy, big ears are spread across the sands, unhearing. Nothing. You search for a twinge, a stirring, anything to give you hope. You find only more questions, uncertainty.
You are a clone. Bred for war. What is even yours? Is your desire a product of your upbringing? Or are these thoughts deeper, the longings of the father, the twin you never knew, is this his head you wear? Are you even the only clone who feels this? Can you live your own life? Had your life ended the moment the war did? Was that even a life? Do you remember it? Or are these too, the memories of a progenitor, part of the program you dreamt in the tube? Perhaps you are simply the program. This life, begins and ends at the same point, never changing, doomed to repetition across a thousand galaxies, a thousand wars and a million battlefields. The Space slug burrow opens up before you and you must know how deep it goes, down the path where madness lies.
And is this all I am?
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