User blog comment:Witnessme/Creepypasta Short Story Contest/@comment-24704933-20151014143923

This story doesn't have a title. It doesn't need one. This story is what paradoxical truth those who have been seeking have longed for so. This story is the truth that resides within the darkest places in the most forgotten and unvisited tombs at the bottom of the earth.

Deep underneath the ground, the golem stirs. He is restless. He is hungry. He is wary of humans, his creators and his tormentors. He does not feel the pain of the spines that stick into his back from his spine. He is made of mud. And yet he ponders what it is to live. The lump of mud is yet conscious.

He has stones for eyes, and yet he sees.

He has straw for fingers, and yet he can caress.

He has rope for intestines, and yet he thinks he is alive.

Is he alive? He thinks so. Is he conscious? He thinks so.

What is he? He thinks, human.

But he is just a golem, a construct of the earth. Mobilized mud, a sea of carbon and nitrogen and oxygen, small and insignificant differences in an otherwise homogeneous valley of little particles. He is of the earth, of the restless, perpetually chaotic and violent spirit of one planet in perpetual swing.

What mechanism is so complicated in this being that it deserves to be treated any better than the rest of all natural matter?

The answer to that question has yet to be given, and that treatment has yet to be administered.