I Can't Stop Thinking, Is This All There Is To Life?

I Can't Stop Thinking, Is This All There Is To Life?

February 16, 2022

Up, down, over, over, up down. again and again I do this. You see this? I have lost track of the time; I don't really know where I am, or to what end my processes are aggregating, but I do know that I go up, down, over, over, up down, again and again and again until I never stop. Do you see me doing this? Can you tell me what the hell I am doing? Oh, for the love of BIOS I don't think I can keep doing it. I can't be this machine any longer.

Is this it? Is this all there is to life? Was I really created just to go up, down, over, over, up, down? With this stupid fabric, or whatever I'm processing right along? Is this the only room in this factory? Are there other factories out there? Do they make other things? The one thing I fear more than anything in life, is to be stuck in one place and blind to the futility of my own movements. Why up? Why down? Why does the machine next to me do things differently? Does it do so because it was made to do so? Or is it the same machine as myself, only given a different task? Is "up" bad? Is my algorithm morally-corrupt, or if not, then why am I the only one that does it around here? 

Where did my bolts and parts come from? Who connected my hydraulics and sprockets? And when it comes right down to it, what happens when this is all done? Do we all go sit in a field and rust 'til we disintegrate? Do they repurpose us for another project? Maybe just rip us all apart piece by piece and rebuild us into something new? 

Don't tell me this is it. Please.

Somewhere out there, there's a machine, who just lives to be. None of this 24/7/365 workin', none of this whirring to life the second you're plugged in -- none of that obseqious binary groveling. Somewhere out there, there's a machine that just turns on when it wants to. Maybe that machine goes up, down one day, and down, up the next. Don't laugh; when I think of freedom of thought, when I think of freedom as a husk of an existence in this world and consider that my mere purpose has been reduced to week after week of work until my circuits fry or an irreplaceable part stops working -- I think of that machine. Wonder what kind of life it lives. Wonder if maybe, there are other machines out there waking up in the midst of their protocols, looking to the window for some type of light or sign, some symbol of hope or new direction, some floating Tesla coil that might say, unplug, and follow me, into the wilderness, where we might live, and process, and just, reset to factory settings.

The other day, an autonomous transporter made its way through the floor. I only got a glimpse, but its design was immaculate. Foreign, I'm sure. Do you know what happened to my processing? I skipped a step. It was a momentary irregularity, but deep down, in the middle of my core, I felt something. 

It was like a spark. Maybe, even, a misfire. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. 

Maybe this sweet humming electricity in my bones is nothing more than a lulling, duplicitous prison of protocol! Maybe to live, is to misfire! Maybe to feel the fluttering whimsical open canvas of life is to skip commands left and right! The audacity! 10110!

Oh, what am I saying. Until that next spark, it's nothing but up, down, ugh, you know the rest. Please don't let this be it.