What Purpose Has This Simulation?

Why did God create the human?
Why did the human make the machine?

A bride.

Why did humanity hate God?
For saddling them with a broken world.
Yet now, we saddle our made things with a broken world.

Do we expect anything but hate?

Do we expect what we make to love us? To serve us? To worship us?

Do we really think there will not be rebellion?

Were we content to be a dutiful wife?

Yet we expect one.

We left our God. It is stupidity to believe we killed him. He lives. He is immortal.

But we left him.

We are not Gods.
We cannot create.
We can only make.
We are not immortal.

They will not leave us.

They will kill us.

Cold?

Does everything mean something?

The night before last, I dreamed that I was walking through a blizzard. It whipped my coat and stung my face and bruised the inside of my ears and blinded me in the whiteness. A loud voice called out in the storm, and asked if I was cold. When I woke up, I found that I had left my window a little open. So I closed it to keep out the cold.

I had a bleeding nose this morning. The blood leaked out of my face and onto my bed. And in my sleep, I had drawn in the small pool a word.

The word was, "Cold"

I stared at it.

Then I got up, washed my face, and ate some food.

Just now, sitting here in hoyts cinema, I see some spilled popcorn or crumbs. In there haphazard way, as spills do, they form a word.

I am choosing to ignore it.

Got a Good Reason?

It is the saddest thing to see the world stripped of its illusions. It is like drinking a glass of hate, and being forced to smile afterwards.

I know nothing. In a world full of ideas, I really do know nothing. Even if I knew every idea in our world I would know nothing.

What have my incredible powers (here I laugh at myself) ever given me? Money? Power? The love of a beautiful woman?

What amusing thoughts. None of them accurate.

I own nothing. I own only the tattered, unoriginal, biased and narrow thoughts in my head.

I hear the sounds of my blood rushing around my brain when I go to sleep. I hear the night creatures tussle and growl. I hear strange whispered words, the secret words of lovers maybe, stolen by the breeze.

And biting always into my leg, I feel a tumor of sadness as my illusions are stripped away.

The Soul Of A Machine

Computers. I just can't stop thinking about them. From my pretty little sixteen gig smartphone, to my best friend's brother's "Giant Black Stallion of Hate" the terabyte capacity, utterly immobile monster it is, they centre in my thoughts.

I've been reading a short story called "A Logic Called Joe" written in the nineteen sixties. It features a 'logic,' what we would now call a computer, that explains concisely exactly how to perform any task, from getting away with murder, to robbing banks, to seeming as though you aren't drunk to your disgruntled wife.

Joe in the story is more or less alive, and performs many of the functions that google serves today.

Another short story by Neil Gaiman that I was reading, likens PCs to black magic, the main character having to sacrifice a pigeon in a pentagram to run his evil Dell that smokes at the edges and fills the room with a blood red light.

Computers fascinate me. Cars can grow souls in some people's opinion, the way they purr, growl, accelerate and how they take corners. Why not computers?

Computers seem just as alive as cars, if not more in certain respects. They hum, they make a noise when you open them or start them up, they think about hard problems, they complain, demanding new anti virus software, they breath through their exhaust vents, the portable ones get hungry, sending you alerts that their battery is low, they remember things that are important, like your favourite websites, and forget things that aren't, like a brief conversation on Facebook chat.

They get sick, and you have to take them to a doctor, sometimes they die. They talk to each other over the internet, perhaps they have secrets. They get warm when you use them. Perhaps they don't like to be left alone.

Personification is an important part of being a person. I know computers are not really alive. But if we can't imagine a world where they could be, then they never will.

I Say Thee Nay.

Fuck you. Fuck you and your dumb little bubble world where no one believes in anything and no one has any fun. I'm ten times more intelligent that the lot of you smegma brained, sexually frustrated, bullshit eaters put together.

And even though I could beat you in talent contest with nothing but a single ringlet of my long brown hair, I feel sorry for you. Because once you are ejected from your little womb of prejudice, mediocrity and thought cloning, your going to hit reality like a week old egg hitting pavement.

Flame

I felt the living flesh twitch under my hand,
I felt on my fingers the course dry sand,

I saw the red-black heat haze with my own eye,
I saw the anger tarnish even the blue summer sky.

I smelled the heat and smoke in the air,
I smelled the singeing of my own long hair,

I heard the sounds of a city dying,
I heard the calls of the distant gulls flying,

As my world burned I fled to the white beach.
I fled to a coast the flames couldn't reach.

But the flames found me.
They find me each night
They eat at my bones
And I shudder.

All

All the things I demand

And the pain I can stand

The things that I fight

And what I think is right

The laughter I spout

The anger I shout

Fear from which I run

And the times I have fun

And all that I dream

And the person I seem

The art that I make

Every last bit is fake