Draw me some solid lines here

Draw me some solid lines here. No more squishy, amorphous business. Nothing that bleeds. Life, victory and triumph through stark and pristine spaces that refuse to bend light. Make my life work be encased in a memorial of glass and steel, of raw materials yielding freedom only in the spaces drawn by precise, upright bars. Whatever humanity that’s left squeezing out of your crispness, starched collars and merciless weaponry, that’s the humanity for me. Whatever nature springs to life from the mud made by mixing blood with pavement, that’s the natural beauty in which I will find my repose. Such are the ideals, sentiments, beliefs and politics I would hope to defend in the last days.

I didn’t begin to live again until I was convinced that someone much bigger than me was programming every single word I said, every action that I did. I didn’t proclaim that I was free until I was certain that every movement I made was controlled by an algorithm.

My ancestors fought for a kind of freedom, one in which they believed that they were free from the tyranny of other human beings. In this, they found success, but they soon realized that a life without some kind of tyranny is no life at all, and so they made a machine, a system of exhaustive precepts from which they could live by. They operated off of a code, a clear series of “if, then” branching steps that told them how to proceed in any set of circumstances. If a situation appeared before them which was unsolveable, not found in the database, they simply froze and remain locked in place until the machine could reach their moment to hammer out new code that clearly provided the most efficient path towards a resolution of the matter. By the time I arrived into this world, such novel barriers were all but removed, and every single choice I needed to make in any given situation was dictated to me in such a way as to make me believe for a few minutes that I was originating the choice, when in all reality, I surely knew that the decision was being handed to me. It offered a pleasant kind of comfort that brought about just enough of a sense of reward for having met and dealt with a novel problem creatively, without too much angst or despairing over the possibility that the problem was truly novel.

From such a beautiful kind of life, I was able to write reams of poetry and create some of the most exquisite artwork, that was properly admired with just the right amount of thoughtful inquisitiveness as to approach the edge of being a critique without daring to criticize my handiwork, which would have surely been an insult to both me and our masters.

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