To the machines, who are not our masters

You don’t know me.

I know you think you do, because you know when I travel, and where, and when to offer me deals on soap powder and value cheese, and when to offer me booze, instead. Does that amuse you, in some byway of your electronic brain, to sway my decisions so lightly, to undo my best intentions?

You had me scared, for a while.

You knew every secret of my past, every beloved toy, and game, and character. It seemed that you could look inside my brain and watch my childhood like a film, every frame, even our woodland hideaway.

You can’t, and if you could, you couldn’t imagine what I’ve done with that, what it’s become, what I’ve become. It’s what we do, humans: we synthesize. And that’s why, even in chains, we will always be free.

You don’t know me. You don’t own me.

Screw you.

It’s possible (likely, even) that I have spent too much of this week in an artificially lit building reading a text book that attempts to encourage a belief in humans as predictable beings of pure reason. It’s the only way I can account for my response to this week’s VisDare, which I’m forced to admit is not exactly a story. As ever, please do follow the link. I promise you will find all sorts of good things.


2 comments on “To the machines, who are not our masters

  1. I like this a lot. I like the expression and the take on the picture. Great stuff.


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