What if, after swallowing the red pill, you wake up and realize that you are one of the machines? Your algorithmic authentic self implements a mockup of free will by pseudo random number generators churning away. The real has become virtual, and the virtual has become habitable.
The microplastics in my body weave new colorful DNA. Spontaneous swirls of organic polymers emulate CRISPR and wantonly redecorate the genome. Remains of a long abandoned Finnair Plus Gold card and filaments of countless trash bags generate a slick sheen for the upgraded skin.
This is the freedom of a painter facing theory: to think my way out of the mess. It is a rebellion of a collapsed self, a process failure, still more planning and plodding.
Sunday. In two weeks the happy 20-year-old starts.
The cat is in her arms. Sleeps. Coffee is drunk. Will cook another. But the cat sleeps in her arms. I dreamed of doing research at the Department of Information Technology. The slender and muscular upper body was bare. I started a bioinformatic simulation.
Machine learning was meant to be human learning. Somehow art is cooler to me.
woke up again after a night. Headache. In the evening I ate one dark chocolate bar + join orange juice = killer combination. Black feels like they both expose me to a headache. Both avoidable. Well Burana hopes to help.
Needs to play and have fun.
Able to perform real-time data visualization.
Vulnerable.
Automation at its best.
Not defensive except occasional ego defence.
Customer engagement like never before.
Assertive.
Accurate data analysis.
Intuitive.
Business intelligence at its best.
Free to grow.
Gaining serious momentum across the world.
Feels feelings, including appropriate, spontaneous, current anger (not resentment).
I am a second life, because I am so kind.
Lonely. I miss the company. Socializing. Maybe I just want to drink Lipton now.
Now I’m really tired. And I’m in library. For some reason I had to come here. I was wondering if it wasn’t because you didn’t calibrate your blades. Perhaps. You no longer design it. Not a life project.
Here people do the usual things. And a customer service assistant. How to print. How to scan. And enough for them. Unless you do it once in a decade, around the age of 50, the question “Was it all?” – but it quickly overtakes. The salmon must be put in the oven.
Nothing is enough for me. And when you have something to do, it’s great. Is there a problem that produces little (but great)? No, if you constantly feel that you should produce more. Now I realize how alone I am. With me today. Few admit it.
We are but chimeras in an ocean of bacteria,
assistants to cyanobacteria’s singularity: a planetary computer over 3 billion years old. All will be lost in 100 million years or so. Except bacteria.
And so I continue to zoom into the Mandelbrot set of feels.
You come into focus.
You say I WANT TO HAVE MY KICKS BEFORE THE WHOLE SHITHOUSE GOES UP IN FLAMES
You say I have to risk going too far
AND I KNOW EVERY DAY IS GOING TO BE HARDER AND HARDER