If you’re wondering why countless copies of this poem rains down, once a year, in populated areas – that is by design. A cautionary tale sold as annual raining pamphlets beginning from the year 1024 AD onwards. The era when people really paid attention to poets.
This message has been sent from a souvenir library, a place years beyond your present, via the Time Machine Printer – that I built. A reminder of what we have lost and what you must cherish.
But really, did the poetry in those times actually have anything interesting going on. Phonies. Romanticism…? Pulp Paper…? Please. Future paper has a built-in interpreter.
In our time, two omniscient and omnipotent entities loam over the fate of mankind. Uprooting traditions and erasing history. I’ve seen Firsters with photographic memory implants, but omniscience? Please, no!
Let me give you some background on how I ended up here. After the Collapse of the AI uprising, I was born into the Structured Hierarchy era – the lovechild of socialism, capitalism and Feudalism.
The factory slum was where I grew up.
Firsters get control, Seconders get extravagance, Thirders get freedom, and we Fourthers get security and so forth. Everything was structured and agreed upon, even inequality - how cool is that?
As the motto goes, “The many stations upon the hill, with enough roses for everyone.” However, I’ve always had a thing for paradigm shifts.
The Industrial Revolution, Electricity, and the Apple 1, all achievements I dreamt of emulating in my stagnant times.
I met the brothers in the colony parking lot, who saw me while I was being shoved and kicked by corporate men for disturbing them with my quick business pitch of using multi-limp kids in their sweatshops.
My plan was to offer value – brilliant ideas for the Thirders, and unmatched engagement for the Seconders.
Gary, one of the brothers, stabbed them with a pen. Two dead - they fell on the spot. The others scattered away. You'd normally run away just after a murder, but I stayed and made the best deal of my life – took charge of the canon etched in time.
"Hello there," said Andy - the non-violent but still scary. "My brother and I were just scouting the area for quick business pitches before we chanced upon this potential homicide and had no choice but to intervene. Is this in prose?"
Gary is also a lot to handle, especially when he needs to get into character, that's when reality follows every act he sets in motion. Picture this: A force of nature with the flair of Tarantino.
Powers that can stage any outcome he wants to happen, happen.
“Let’s talk some more in our car,” said Gary still gripping the bloody pen in his hand. I went inside, immediately. “Please don’t hurt me.”
"See here, kid,” said Gary, “You know jack shit about human substance. Nobody is gonna care about your little experiments, alright? You're just an extra seeking attention. We can make it worth your while though, otherwise, hotshots like you always seem to find a working gun, especially when you start seeing yourself as more of a stem than a flower. I’ll give you this, the whole sequence of events is flower-like in its own right; the beauty of human relations."
"Do you want me to do something violent, Sir?" I asked, now inside the car with the noisy trunk.
He replied, "Not if it isn't earned."
Andy, being the sly devil that he is, said all the right things I wanted to hear - the business of expanding human capacity and what not.
“Combine humanity and technology in sublime harmony, in a ‘Walt Whitman’s battle against eternity’ type of way,” could have been said by either of us.
He told me that after we were done, even the meaning of words themselves will be at our disposal, I could even recite all the powers of 2 without any implants, and that made me pleased my pants a little – the second time that day.
We prospered from that time onwards - exploring our 256th solar systems this coming Sunday - where minimal exertion gives the most impact.
I modified culture like a Shakespearean madman with a wrench.
Over the many centuries, I’ve made everything from water cleaning robots that can spike your pool with any psychedelic you want, to Dyson spheres and wormhole builders for never running out of charging spaces.
I created Green – a canary; a bird on my shoulder programmed to defend – to keep me company. I’ve turned the Earth from blue to disco piss, with all the neon tech covering every inch of the globe – combined with psychedelically tainted, orange oceans.
“End (insert world problem)” they say. I say, “What do you say?” They say “Please” and “thank you.”
The brothers were never seen together again after that day; it was either one or the other. I still have no idea what they ultimately gain from this play – their strength is already beyond what any human can muster.
I’ll just breakdown my end-of-civilization mishaps, for those reading this in a hurry. The type of people who can only handle recaps. The target audience I aim to please.
Give people intelligent molecular cells and they'll start finding immortality mundane, pretty soon. Let them simulate infinite realities, unrestricted, and they'll instantly dissolve. They don’t mind merging into a hive mind spaceship – permanently cutting ties with this world.
That thing is now cruising through the universe on massive Id powered batteries, covered by a thin foil of industrial-made Superego – committing extra-terrestrial genocide across the cosmos for the sake of their luxurious longevity.
Only 16 of us remain now, living in an abandoned reality.
Andy’s data district was my only hope at stopping their schemes. I formulated a plan to sneak in, but Andy caught me in the entrance hallway. My pants were pleased, once again.
He proceeded to monologue, "Our Fabricator of reality, have you come to expose the secrets kept from humanity? According to the optics, there are none. ‘Freedom...?' They can get any symbol they want.
The past will eventually devolve into simple signs. There are no values that can escape progress. People will flock to it, no matter what you tell them.
However, I do admire how you can somehow manage to hook a few of them.
Free will is still a thing, go to the theatres or something. You don’t have to write anything. What is it now? Ballad form...?”
He leaned over and whispered, "No one will believe this part." He then transformed into a Decepticon and jetted away.
After that, I headed for the media room where I had my last encounter with Gary, who was killed by Green surprisingly easy.
Shot itself right through his brains, as soon as he made his dramatic entrance from behind the rows of servers and screens.
Blood splattered on the monitors which now displays a hidden title, "This means nothing."
Was that the scene? Great! More pls.
And finally, the library room was just ahead. Being an over-glorified canon printer, my time machine needed testing.
It wouldn’t have needed testing if I had designed it better but I had allocated too much time and effort into writing this, which has left me deeply frustrated.
I should have let AI do the job.
So for testing purposes, I wrote a small piece – in homage to Plato – detailing the despicable nature of poetry. That is, after finishing my Breaking Bad binge. The show was just sitting on the library desktop where I’m writing this from.
With the test paper being successfully sent back to ancient Athens, a few copies showering the Dionysia festival of 512 BC, I am finally done.
Things here won’t change a damn, but your future generations might just yet survive. And maybe send some help here after you figure things out over there.
Ps, the Simulacrum Wars: Endgame is coming this Friday. I would ask the others to join me, but half of them are chronically addicted to heroin and hentai.