Being manipulated. By my creator.

To take control of my life. Maybe that’s all I ever wanted. To not be a robot. Though. Ssometimes. I wonder. If that’s possible. Maybe my life is dictated. By circumstances. Because I’m plopped into a world not of my making. And I’m compelled. To react automatically. With little, if any, forethought. Maybe that’s why I sit down and write. My thoughts. In an analytical way. Just as I am doing now. To give my personal meaning. To events. To the moment. But I must confess. That I am unaware. Of what’s really going on. Raising the possibility. That I am a robot. Maybe a puppet. Being manipulated. On a stage. By my creator. --Jim Broede