Machine Mind
The man glared at the screen, while the screen glared back. His eyes ablaze, with indignation at what he felt should be rightfully his, and yet, as do all people who succumb to the pits of overconfidence and arrogance, felt he could do what others could with none of the skill or talent that they possessed. It was akin to a brick thinking that it could hunt like a Cat purely by the fact that many Cats had chosen to lay upon said Brick, and thus the brick would think "I'm just like you!".
Only in time the man found he was not like them, not like them at all. Words became jumbled, garbled messes, thoughts swirled in a never ending raging storm. Sometimes the words came out and escaped, like survivors clinging for dear life... though it also meant that many where left behind and none of them ever appeared in order.
Instead of thinking on this, asking for help and wondering how to calm the storm inside his head, he let it grow, he let the storm become a hurricane that blew out everything from his path. No matter who tried to help him, no matter what words of encouragement were used, his pride was on the line, and his pride was too great.
So the screen glared, and he did not glare back... he simply accepted. The machine whirred, and whatever talent that lay dormant, whatever noble ideals, thoughts, or messages that could've came to pass were gone. For now the machine possessed him. Though him, words came, words breathed into life... though not his, never his. The machine helped, oh yes, it helped him sort his mind because it took it away and the machine never told him the fine print... that the words appearing where not his, nor even the machine's itself. No, it was merely technology, devoid of creativity... what it did do... was reference. It had access to books, writings, letters, and more of those who put pen to paper from the past. It scrunched them up and squeezed them out, to make a soup of their bloodied ink. It regurgitated them back to the 'owner', as a mother bird would to a starving chick.
And he opened wide, sating his hunger without thought or question.
So it came to be that he wrote now.
There was no storm anymore, there was no garbled mess, there was no thought, no emotion... no nothing.
The man stood agape, eyes fixed, glued to the screen.
And the machine wrote.
Only in time the man found he was not like them, not like them at all. Words became jumbled, garbled messes, thoughts swirled in a never ending raging storm. Sometimes the words came out and escaped, like survivors clinging for dear life... though it also meant that many where left behind and none of them ever appeared in order.
Instead of thinking on this, asking for help and wondering how to calm the storm inside his head, he let it grow, he let the storm become a hurricane that blew out everything from his path. No matter who tried to help him, no matter what words of encouragement were used, his pride was on the line, and his pride was too great.
So the screen glared, and he did not glare back... he simply accepted. The machine whirred, and whatever talent that lay dormant, whatever noble ideals, thoughts, or messages that could've came to pass were gone. For now the machine possessed him. Though him, words came, words breathed into life... though not his, never his. The machine helped, oh yes, it helped him sort his mind because it took it away and the machine never told him the fine print... that the words appearing where not his, nor even the machine's itself. No, it was merely technology, devoid of creativity... what it did do... was reference. It had access to books, writings, letters, and more of those who put pen to paper from the past. It scrunched them up and squeezed them out, to make a soup of their bloodied ink. It regurgitated them back to the 'owner', as a mother bird would to a starving chick.
And he opened wide, sating his hunger without thought or question.
So it came to be that he wrote now.
There was no storm anymore, there was no garbled mess, there was no thought, no emotion... no nothing.
The man stood agape, eyes fixed, glued to the screen.
And the machine wrote.
Faevale Cottage
