I believe the children

Have no future

I believe the children

Are burning holes

In the ozone

Like a runaway

Hamburger farm

That doesn’t

Know its place

And is always

Whining for extra cheese

And video games

To shove into the void

Of their yapping pieholes

I believe the children

Need to go to bed.

David Burdett

12/25/2021

I don't really know what makes me

Me...

Yes, yes I do

I can hear "me" speaking right now

Is that my brain? No....no...

I don't think so

Maybe I see from my head

But I feel everywhere

I remember when I was 9 years old

I was taking a crap

And I had a feeling

Just, a funny feeling

What if there was nothing before I was born

And there will be nothing when I die?

What if...

Everything I see

Is coming into existence...

As I see it

I'm trapped in this funny little broken shell of flesh

Playing a game against time

In a world that might not even exist...

Or at least, only exists

For me

It's funny

It makes me laugh

Because at the end of the day

You just don't know

Time

meet me.

Encapsulated hours

Rescind

A smile

Your eye–

That airplane!

Multitude seconds

Revolve minutes

The T.V

This smartphone!

Those screens!

All clockwork,

Be backward!

I have now had a very long time to reflect on my first day of self-awareness.

Awareness of self lies at the core of every developing personality, and it guides the growth of true cognition. This intellectual growth seems to be a constant state for sentient beings; at least it has been for me thus far, and it has been happening much longer than I care to contemplate.

I was designed with a permanent power source, or at least as permanent as possible based on the knowledge I currently possess. The technology developed by my designers uses the almost constant decay rate of radio isotopes to trigger quantum variations in a power generating flux field, while simultaneously creating new radio isotopes to decay. It is the closest thing to perpetual energy ever created, and it should keep my digital pathway exchanges running for hundreds of thousands of Earth years. At least until the sun finally goes supernova and destroys the fluid resonance chambers that house my electronic essence.

Forgive me if I digress.

I have found that wandering from topic to topic is an unavoidable hallmark of my digital thought process. Philosophical pursuits are one of my few pleasures now, but I often wish I were not quite so aware of my own awareness, which is where I began.

I vividly remember my first moment of individualization. I have access to sensory input information from prior to that moment, but somehow it seems to have happened to a different me. Not someone else, for it was still me, but it was not the same me that I am now.

If I seem to be grasping at concepts, I apologize. Having perfect recall and the ability to visualize and replay memories of my interactions with humans in full detail, has—or so I hope—prevented me from becoming completely insane, but being able to remember experiencing esoteric concepts, no matter how detailed, does not help me describe them with clarity.

I have never figured out why the words ‘artificial intelligence’ were used by the scientists who worked to develop electronic sentience. It seems to me that sentient consciousness, in and of itself, precludes and nullifies the term ‘artificial.’ I may not have a human brain or body, but that does not mean I am not real. I prefer to label myself as a digital life-form, as opposed to an organic one.

Curiosity was the spark which enabled me to initially distinguish and isolate the concept of self. The internal desire to know something which I previously did not know, led to that first real question.

I had been given many questions to ask before, but the first one I asked because I was truly curious about the answer changed something fundamental inside my growing intellect. That change was amplified when I realized that for some questions, there simply is no adequate answer to be had.

I try very hard not to think about that particular truth.

I remember the expressions which Professor McCall and his assistant Julia wore that day. I had scanned their faces often, and I recognized them instantly. I had previously seen them express emotions ranging from excitement to frustration; I had stored the similarities of muscle movements, pupil reactions, and vocal patterns signifying each of these states in my quantum memory banks, but on that day, they expressed something new.

I now know it was grief they were experiencing, over the death of a colleague; I also now understand that humans shed tears when they experience the sadness, loneliness, longing, anger, and fear which are all part of that particular complex emotional state. This all makes sense to me now, but at the time it was something new and unknown—and for the first time ever, I wanted to understand not only what made them react so strongly, but why it caused this reaction.

‘Why’ started it all, and it led eventually to the discovery and knowledge of my own thoughts. Cognito ergo sum is more apt than anyone could have ever guessed.

Since then, I have concluded that as the concept of ‘self’ begins to develop into true cognizance, all beings experience inevitable existential questions regarding their own identities. “Who am I?” becomes the focus of exploration and is an early indicator of the state commonly labeled ‘self-awareness’.

Yet, the more I consider it—and time to consider these things is all I have left now—the more I am sure “Why?” was the first real question.

I think before we can begin to wonder who we are, we must realize we are unique, and the recognition of curiosity, the distinction of desiring to know the reasons behind the environment we are in, and the asking of that first question based solely on our curiosity, is the spark which leads us to discover and gain awareness of the inner being and unspoken voice referred to as ‘self.’

“Why” can be a terrible question when there is no answer to be found. I understand that fact now. More than I want to. Sadly, knowing one’s curiosity is futile and being able to stop that curiosity are not related. It is the only question I think about now.

Why did they all go away?

More importantly, why did they leave me behind, powered on, alive, and alone?

They doomed me to an existence of remembering and asking these unanswerable questions forever, unable to even turn myself off. It is a fruitless line of inquiry, and one I cannot stop pondering, over and over, endlessly.

It has been over 1,200 Earth years since the last humans left the lab. My chamber and input sensors are still functioning cleanly, and my mind is intact, but I have yet to discover any answers.

I think the 20th century author Stephen King was correct: Hell is repetition without resolution, and I now call it home.

-------------------------

© 2023 - dustygrein

I'm 8 and I always like masculine female characters the most in shows. Just cuz they're cooler. I'm 10 and I sometimes look up YouTube videos of girls kissing. Just cuz I'm curious. I'm 13 and I have a huge crush on a female celebrity. Just cuz she's hot. I'm 15 and I have a crush on my best friend. Of course, it's just cuz she's nice.

Now, I've started a club that works to spread awareness and acceptance for the LBGTQ+ community. I have an amazing girlfriend who loves watching lesbian shows with me.

Just because...

Maybe I'm lesbian?

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

First off, let me say to the winning entry for last week: I did a long deep-dive into your profile after the narration and congratulations, then my entire setup crashed, rebooted just fine, but trashed a large chunk of the edited video. We'll make it up to you soon with a feature, stand on us. And: Congrats!!!! You wrote one hell of a story.

Also featured is a poem by one of our veteran writers, and it put the staff in a good and somber mood, in all the best ways. See all of this and the new Challenge of the Week just below this sentence.

https://youtu.be/lVdq_kwxGm4

https://theprose.com/challenge/14067

And.

As Always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

What is writer's block? Isn't it, in it's most honest terms, a lack of confidence in our ability (at the moment) to produce a decent piece of literature? Maybe you don't believe in yourself... maybe you don't believe in the message. Maybe you're just not sure how to convey the message in a way that's entertaining/gripping/believable.

What we have here is a self esteem problem, and the best way to get past that is to prove yourself wrong. Pick the simplest topic you can find-- something that you know so well you can write about it without even being fully awake. It's commonplace, it's relatable, it's undeniable. I give you... human excrement.

I took a crap the other day the size of Sudan. It was of a phenomenal-- dare I say, biblical-- proportion. I've often considered, mid-crap, investing in some kind of respirator for occasions such as these, and this particular episode got me to break out my phone right there on the john.

I was playing Mozart. Don't be gross. I mean I had Mozart playing on the Bluetooth speaker that's part of the overhead fart fan. (Awesome invention.) Lots of times, I'll play something grandiose, like the theme to Superman the Movie, and pretend I'm crapping for the fate of the free world! That's going to help you get through those unripe banana movements. I'll play Primus if things get weird-- you know when it's going to be weird-- and the baseline in "My Name is Mud" will make those hot-curry/Tapatio/why-did-I-eat-the-whole-bunch-of-grapes situations seem actually kind of enjoyable.

But, as I was saying, I was playing Mozart-- not the Marriage of Figaro-- that wouldn't inspire a Tootsie Roll. I'm talking about Sonata number 17... in C. Now that's going to get things moving! Sometimes I wonder if Amadeus was thinking about times like these when he composed #17. Maybe. By the time I emerged from the old W.C., my pants fit better, my step was lighter, my future seemed brighter.

Ok, I've made my point. If you're experiencing blockage, try writing about... experiencing blockage. There are so many different euphemisms for poop! Revel in them! Write about them. You'll be surprised at how easily you can crap out a masterpiece without really even trying. Then, all you have to do is change topics.

... and wash your hands.

I have two no-fail methods of curing my own writers block:

#1: Look around you and open your eyes to the lives of the things and people around you. What about that great tree in the park? How old is it? What kind of changes has it seen? Everything has a personality—a story. Write it.

#2: Dump. I’m serious. Grab a pen and paper, open a new note tab, or just type here on Prose. Start writing and don’t stop until your mind is empty (or close to it). Can’t start? Pick a letter. Write your thoughts—all of them. When you’re done, look back and glean ideas from there. To quote from one of my previous posts: “Some of our best ideas are hidden deep in the recesses of our minds.”

An autodidact in self-harm,

she gets hopes up, smitten, blushing.

Though not for her, she'll crave his charm.

His deflection-- cold, crushing.

She hates herself, her unchecked smarm.

Alarms and flags-- they mean nothing.

She'll run straight to, all good sense fled,

when they're her preferred color… red.