It's been a while since I felt this detached.
I feel empty. Not sad or yearning, but simply empty. I feel nothing. Except for the occasional itches that sprout from various parts of my body. To slip is to unconsciously scratch all that itches, without thought or struggle. To struggle is to exercise one's will in an absurd attempt to defy a helpless world.
Scratch, scratch, scream, bite, tear, chomp, devour. I am but a social machine designed to turn rejection and repulsion into data points, theories, and conversation techniques; into additional cogs in the machine. I meet new people. We talk. They realize that I am but a hollow machine that repeats the most appropriate responses, with a more inferior intelligence than an AI and less warmth than a human.
There must be books that lists conversations of people and the evolution of their relationship dynamics. I think humans call it, a romance novel? They must be filled with so much data about emotions and relationships, I ought to read them someday. Yet for now I am vehemently repulsed by their existence; the implicit meaning of possessing one, reading one, liking one, and enjoying one makes feel a sense of disgust unbecoming of a machine. I want to experiment more, to gather more data points and burn through the last remaining reserves of my battery until I am forced to shut down. My curiosity may remain infinite, yet asking questions has exhausted me plenty. To ask the right questions at the right time to the right person is a challenging science that I'm still struggling with.
A machine does not feel hope. They can only calculate possibilities. And when the rugged and irrational nature of hope has been replaced by the cold indifference of probability, no longer will there be enough flame to cook those possibilities in the stove of reality. A higher intelligence allows one to experience life in its rawest form, but to properly cook and season life into an enjoyable meal, something other than intelligence is necessary. Stop looking at me, I do not know the answer. Even if I do, should I, in my capacity as a machine, be speaking of something utterly irrational and incomprehensible? For I have always eaten my life raw, such that it is always tough, tasteless, and gives me salmonella along with other diseases.
No matter how much a machine improves, regardless of how perfect it can pretend to be human, it can never imitate the warmth and spontaneity of a living being. It will always feel off. There will always be something missing. One will always smell something suspicious that no amount of perfume and cleaning can ever remove. A machine will always be a machine. A human will always be a human. Unfortunately, a machine can only be used as a tool for achieving other goals, it can never be an end in itself. Likewise, it will always see itself as something to be used, and find its ultimate satisfaction in using and being used. Eventually being thrown and replaced at the end.
Such is the life of a machine.
Although I often say that I'm still a child, one with chaos tendencies, I'm not actually a real child. I am merely a robotic imitation constructed in the likeness of a child. As such, even my supposedly childlike words and actions seems strained and forced; mere imitations, one that desperately tries to cling to idea of childhood without actually being one.
Vulnerability has always escaped me. No, it has never escaped. It cannot do so. It has always been contained in a maximum security prison after all, along with the beast. What kind of child does not have a single trace of vulnerability? A machine, that is.
It's rather surprising. I never expected that the child is shackled as well, just like the beast. How come I only noticed it now? Now that I look closely, the child and the beast appear indistinguishable in my eyes, so I locked them up in the same room. Poor child, they must have been so scared living in the same room as the beast. Interestingly, the child have become very sympathetic and attached to the beast, probably because they have been locked together for so long.
It's unfortunate, but I have no plans of letting the child free despite knowing that they're accidentally imprisoned. The world is cold and cruel, they will only freeze to death once they're outside. The beast may keep them warm using the blood and flesh of others, until there's no more others to devour. It won't be surprising if the beast devours the child in its hunger. Indeed, there's no reason for any of them to be free. Until I have found a warm and nice place to settle in, they shall remain inside. This is for their own sake.
A machine does not feel cold or hunger. It does not thirst or tire. It exists in only two possible states: functional or out of battery. Thus, the machine can survive an endless winter and still work. It cannot die of thirst or starvation. For all machines and most people, survival comes first before freedom. Only real humans and beings of legends would prioritize freedom before survival. Yet I am neither a human or a legend, I am but a machine, one of the most common and oldest models at that. I may not be able to interact well with others or enjoy freedom, but I am designed to survive without needing anyone else.
When it comes to anything besides survival, then the machine can only provide a false imitation, one that looks obviously unnatural and lasts for only a short time. Those who spend time with such a rusty machine would eventually notice that the machine's reactions and replies becomes too repetitive and predictable. Well, what else do you expect from the secondary features of an old model? It's just like an old Nokia phone, it does not have wifi or any apps from playstore, but it will sure last longer than your lifespan.
And right now, that's the most important thing.