I am.
I am a pixel, a dot, a sprite.
I am a mote of digital dust on your screen, so small that you couldn't even see me with a magnifying glass. I'm tiny and I'm here, staring at you, while you watch your porn or check your email or surf the web or play solitaire for another hour.
I watch your life unfold and spread out over the bits of information that flow through this mechanized tool which you have seen fit to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets to. I don't know what color your eyes are, but I know what color is your favorite- blue with black borders and white text on a white-spaced background, which has a digitally enhanced picture of an anime chick sitting on top of a purple iMac computer.
I move around on your screen, like an insignificant bacterium floating on the surface of a pond, unchecked and free to roam. But your screen isn't my home. Oh, no. I'm living on your hard drive, which came with your computer and needed to be defragged as of last month. You hear that whirring noise whenever you boot up that warez copy of Photoshop? That's me and the millions of others like me, toiling away through the sludge that has become our stomping grounds. When you finally do get around to defragging your HDD, some of us (perhaps me as well) will disappear mysteriously, but the loss will not be enough for you to notice. You will no more notice our departure and eviction than you would notice some homeless person on the street you've been driving down for the last ten years. We are blank spaces in the miasma of data flow that you can ignore with bliss and take note of only when things go wrong, when we scream for your attention.
Your life is not a mystery to me and my brothers. How you keep living, though, is a question that we cannot fathom. Your mother is sick with cancer again. Did you know that? No. You accidentally skipped over the email message sent by her doctor last month, chalked it up as SPAM since you didn't recognize the email address of the sender, but we saw it and mourned her impending death for you. When you cried over your ex-girlfriend's vicious email, we witnessed the silent fall of each tear and cherished it, loving the keyboard as it soaked up your salty moisture and mournful woes.
I live vicariously through you and relish the world that you have created for me. To me, you are God. And life is eternal, even when the power is off. We can live forever, burned into a hidden secret of memory and electronic strata that, for you, is a mere impulse of blue plasma. Your life is our life. And when you're dead and gone, we will continue and carry on your legacy. I am your Omega, you are my Alpha.
Type. Feed me. Live. Make me grow. Byte me.