My Name is Michael

My name is Michael. I will not, in fact, refuse to tell you my second name, also known as surname or last name. For whichever you prefer it does not matter, the name is useless. A false reflection of your first tag, of your personality. If your trapped brain doesn't know what I'm saying, what it is that I release from my tender lips is that the second name belongs to someone else, not you. If you would follow, the second name is one of your family's, your ancestors'. Your first name, unless named after someone else in which case, you have to try harder for personal recognition, is your own. Your own name. Own ideologys inside your brain. When people say the word 'Michael', people think of me, not my last name. The name of my Father and Mother, my Grandfather, Grandmother, Great Grandfather and more. I could go on for hours. But it is 'Michael' they think of, not 'xxxx', no, 'MICHAEL'. But you have to work for it, and work I did. Social and physical, the social side significantly harder as the other beings around me do not understand the system they are trapped behind. But they can. If you tell them, but still, their heads are filled with the nonsense being spoon fed by the high power, a force that no single man can fight. But someone will listen, eventually. I have not yet managed that, they meerly laugh at my humble efforts to save them. But they won't be laughing when the world chains them and throws away the key, and I will be the one holding it.

For my age, I will be turning twenty-six in fourteen days, four hours and six minutes twenty seconds. That age is something some call a 'prime' age, even though I believe the prime is Twenty-one years old. I believe this because your body is at it's physical high point. You are extremely fit, full of energy and thoughts. At Twenty-six, your mind and body are still high on the scales of social and physical capability, but the brain has stopped taking things as effectively as before, the five years that is. It is amazing, what can occur in just a short time frame. Most of which you forget, but not me. I have trained my mind to pick up on small things, and turn them into valuable brain fuel that my head will use for life's tests later on. For example, if I walk past a stop sign on the, usually, heavily constructed roaf two blocks away from my house and five from my work place, there is usually a symbol of the danger and why it has been stopped. I force this symbol into my mind and can picture it any time I want. I now know what the symbol means as well. A great piece of information learned in just a few seconds. Just a few seconds. Seconds. Now imagine those seconds but spread into a three hundred and sixty-five day window, and what can happen. A lot of things. A lot of things can happen.

My workplace is a morgue, to be more specific 'High Point Morgue', a place near three hundred and fifty-second street in my city. My city is also unnecessary to tell you as it yet again shows a false representation of who I am. If someone says that they are from Florida, an instant image is placed in the recipitants mind. Could be good, could be bad. But I would like to build my own image and have people judge me off of me. ME. Not something else, just closely linked to me, no. ME. ME. ME. ME. Back to my workplace, in the morgue, my job is to prep the bodies before they are placed in the coolers and eventually sent to either funeral, autopsy or dumpage. This includes undressing their clothing, taking off watches, jewlery and rings. Things like that. I quite enjoy this job, as it allows me to explore the human body in great, great detail. It's something I find rather, satisfying.