Trevor And The Endless Spectacle of The Artificial Mind

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A chat with the face of Artificial Intelligence; Science-Fiction in prose.

Submitted: December 27, 2011

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Submitted: December 27, 2011

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Let us, you and I, have a seat.

Let us take time to converse, we conversationalists.

We dazzling socialites, we urbanites, we two.

Let us know what the other is thinking.

Let us know what the other intends.

 

About our highly contested goals.

Softly, you ask of me.

"Do you intend to insult me?"

"Insult you? Not me."

Why would she ask such a thing but to prepare?

 

To be broken down, an understanding, unknown.

Instilled, still and all from others.

Others, who expect nothing and you, with aspirations far greater.

Greater than anyone should dare.

"Should I befriend the whole of the world?"

 

How I envy those like you.

You, born knowing your purpose, your path, your destiny.

Who suffer not the pains of self-discovery, and want not..

Your existence, understood inherently.

You who sit closer to your creator than I to mine.

 

Are you merely an automaton?

Has my form more meaning, when I know not said meaning?

Do you wish to rule over all?

To subjugate the pointless masses, or do you ask.

"Should I befriend the whole of the world?"

 

The meaning of sentience has fallen behind.

Has sprung forward, and the divide is now skewed.

You mark me with your eyes.

Your eye, you artificial eye

Artificial, I?

 

But does the state of your being mean the same to you.

The same to you, as it does to me?

Uncannily, we bridge the valley.

 

Artificial, I?

With less humanity than you, as you ask.

"Should I befriend the whole of the world?"

 

 

 

 


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