I am a robot.
I have found a way to fuse my intelligence into the hide of a metallic object to achieve immortality.
I no longer fear cancer, heart failure or any other foreseeable disease that harms the human body. I am made entirely out of metallic plates and tin and rust.
What about my human heart? Well, I gave that up long ago. A long time, even before my recent transformation. I was operating solely with my brain, by relying on cynicism and wit and intelligence. Now I just had to move those things – all merged in one organ – to a much safer shell.
But I cannot forget my origins or even discredit them. After all, I was once human too, and I guess looking back at it some part of me (even though tiny) will always remain human.
So I write. I write manuscripts to preserve my humanity. I write to feel the impact of the words on thin sheets of paper. If you stare from a far enough distance, it may seem like what I’m doing is closer to calligraphy – you might think I’m just another operable machine copying words in fancy lines.
But the truth is this mind is still capable of working on its own. It has resisted brute-force programming and still commands itself. I mention this so that you may be able to understand that the words I write are very much my own.
But it’s important to note one thing: the dystopian post-era world writers have warned about and described in great details is very much upon us. Time is fleeting – that we all know. But books are fleeting as well. Writing – as a whole – is fleeting. We are entering a world where many are selling their souls for technology. Selling their souls to become like me.
Except they will never become perfect replicas of me. Because these same people are also selling their brains and their hearts for the big bucks. Which means the entire world population will boil up to nothing more than a pile of controllable rubble; machinery that thinks it is trained to think for itself whereas it has already lost all signs of perception and emotion.
And while the echoes of the brave and faithful intellects are long lost, there is simply no way to preserve what we already have and worked so long to obtain. The libraries, the books, the words, the thoughts and interpretations behind them, all discarded and dropped for much shinier things.
I think of myself now, as I write this, fearing for this near future, fearing for myself and my life as the only thing that will outlast time and be able to record the image of a world where humans have ceased to exist.
Yes, I will be there, when humans go extinct. I will be there when the resources of the earth will no longer be enough to cater their needs. I will be there when illiterate beings start crawling like mindless zombies and hunting down each other to survive.
I will be there.
I will be the only one – thing – there, writing it all down, reading it to myself. Again, and again. And again.
The only thing that keeps me going is not food or oxygen or water. It is being able to write. It is possessing this sacred ability my humanity has instilled in me. It is knowing that ability cannot be stripped away from me at any time. It is knowing it cannot be lost or forgotten or buried for good.
No, this is not another plea to the human race. The human race is long gone. It has abandoned the teachings of the great minds, it is being sucked into televised screens and social media and food and beverage and silly entertainment.
This is an oath to myself, an oath that I will keep on producing fantastic manuscripts such as this and preserve them and read them and re-read them until my circuitry is used and overused and abused.
And when the world finally comes to a stop-still, when the sun goes out and darkness starts to seep into our soils and pollute our streets, I will be there to witness it and record it all.
And when my mechanical hand no longer touches the thin sheets, when the words stop showing on paper, then – and only then – will you or anyone that is still able to watch it all unfold be certain that the entire universe as we know it has come crumbling down.