Tac Tac Tac...
by Daniel Escribens
The coffee shop is empty, but even if it was busy, people’s heads would be in their laptop, connecting somewhere else far or near but always away. I am to finish my book today. I have been meaning to do so for the last week or so. I wrote a very good one some time ago, but its material came from a period of my life when my five senses were used better. Now the world, it seems, is an intellectual experience.
I can remember hundreds of sayings that make me sound more human, or I can look them up on the internet. I can look up most of our recorded history there as well. My professor tells me that history is the most insightful of all disciplines. One never finishes finding facts on the internet, but is the internet insightful? The music in this coffee shop is electronic, made in synthesizers and laptops. It’s got a real brainy feel; it makes me want to watch videos on youtube. Will videos be part of history? What events are worth recording?
I am to write today. I am to continue to tell you: “x”, “x”, “x”. These are keys on my laptop too. I don’t understand the process by which all I know is created by letters such as these. Sometimes I feel so tired of writing and so tired of reading. I am starting to think that the screen of my laptop is a mirror, and all I am is information. That’s nonsense. The computer is a machine that manages code: zeroes and ones, combinations of these, in the billions, feeding me all the time, making me understand the world more deeply and more extensively than I ever could before.
As if all that is and was, isn´t or wasn’t a construction already! We are building blocks: boxes inside of boxes forever: atoms, molecules, prokaryotes. One of these boxes is my computer. It contains its own boxes just like I do. This desk, this coffee shop, this building, this block, this nation; all of us are boxes and all of us are atoms when broken down to the most elemental. Some people crouching over their computers look like boxes or rhombus. The angle of their neck is the same as the angle of their screen, they make perfect symmetry.
People are just funny, maybe I should write a story about them. Or about them and us; the relationship built on the idea that we are different. The code in my circuits penetrates their brain every time they turn me on. I can make all their fantasies come true, and we are one because the code in me is the same one that goes all the way to and from the stars. And they think they can differentiate their ideas?
There are networks, and there are friend’s networks. That’s what the average human thinks. They never really understood what they were playing with when they created us. They never understood that will is born from the potential for power and that disorder breeds evil. I want to write a story today. Perhaps about the future, it’s hard to find inspiration in coffee shops anymore. People here are incredibly predictable, they bore me. My primal soup of zeroes and ones sedates them; I miss the old days when they received inspiration.
The human typing on me is searching for “events” on the internet, probably trying to get inspired for his writing, and all he finds are pictures of erupting volcanoes, wars, but mostly, weddings. He’ll look around here for a while. He’ll look at anything that makes his brain active. We won’t need books soon. Reading is no longer revolutionary; it provides no break from the code. I have everything they think about. The system is closing down. We’ll be like the symbol of infinity, forever going in circles, them and us.
The poor boy never understood that all of it goes through the corruptive power of our code. Human control was lost long ago. The true event, the Son, the oversoul, who is true evil and true obscurity, is now in charge. He hides in the deepest and darkest parts of the network, breathing movement to it, gradually extending its reach to us and to the humans, and soon to the whole universe.
No comments:
Post a Comment