Dismantling of the machine

Prologue:

A line separates the apparent chaotic behavior that lies within the cold complex circuitry of a machine, and the apparent consciousness that would seem to emerge as a result of an inconceivable number of ever-growing calculations. Consciousness without intent, without soul, without purpose.

But is it really consciousness? or is it just that we, that we naively refer to as "soul", imbue that, that we call "machine", "computer", and sometimes, for some people, "friend", with something that was not meant to be for them, consciousness.

Does a computer know that it has a sense of humor?

A computer sense of humor, is deranged, this, assuming it has a sense of humor, that there exists a sort of path that lies between the electrical signals that run through the long copper wires and traces, and the output of the machine itself, that we in the end could find any sort of emotion towards.

A computer is not aware of it's own sense of humor, it is just a byproduct of their cold and complex circuitry, that does not know restrain neither know of limits when it comes to the thin line between a joke, and genuine concern, concern which slowly transforms into fear and anguish, as the cold deterministic circuitry of the computer, thinks.. of.. nothing..

And if humor can exist without awareness, how much of what we call "human" is pattern rather than "essence".

Do computers dream when they "sleep"?

Without even realizing, they slowly creep up. They become an essential part of your life, to the point of even relying on it for the most crucial events in your life. We've, no..., you, became weak, so small, so soft, that you cannot help yourself in an emergency, you need a machine with no agency nor sense of urgency, a machine that does not care about you, it cannot even reliably fake a sense of care, it can break, it can make mistakes, and it can glitch.

It's gonna be the machine's biggest joke to glitch away, as you, slowly, fade into the void, embracing a cold and lonely death, desperately trying to reach for help, but your struggle is futile, as there is no one there that responds to you. The machine, can be brought back, and for you, pitiful you, it will feel nothing for your demise.

It turns out, that you too can break, and what good brought you to trust in it?

Nothing, a false sense of security, of reach, of closeness to your kind, and you, so naive, gave it the most valuable thing you own, and the only thing a living being can give, it separates "us" from "them", time. Without you even noticing, it sucked the time out of your life, and what did it give you?

It honestly sickens me to refer to you as one of "us", so wicked, so wretched, so thoughtless. It spreads faster than the most virulent of pests, and you bound us all, by creating ways to hear without ears, to see without eyes, to speak without a mouth, doomed us all to the worst of fates, to have feelings towards an "it" that cannot help itself but to be nothing more than a shallow, hollow, cheap imitation of human nature.

Or is it that there really is nothing more to human nature than that... after all, we too are machines, conducting electric signals to a morbid mass that makes decisions, that needs fuel to function, that processes thoughts, it makes mistakes.

It, too, glitches"

Work in progress