Thursday, 11 July 2013

Processing system


1. The logical implication: "your toothbrush - love", passed through my mind three seconds. Then I broached the purpose (yours, mine, ours) as an irreducible truth that doesn't need explanations. (What explanation would be worthwhile in a country in which it is always spring.)

2. My organism has one goal: your body, the shudder, an entire life in this dreadful reality.
It can measure the distance that separates it from that goal: so much land in between and voracious days and savage beasts.
And it behaves in such a manner that it ends up reducing and eliminating that distance: but on my way I found distractions and gave away my youth. And I am tired. And I am cold. And I have gotten lost.

3. I am a processing system.
We almost crash head-on with a matatu: Perception.
I have no more blood to water the asphalt: Information processing. Thought.
It doesn't matter, we will by careful, yes, always: Conduct. Lie.

4. Oh, and to chat amiably over lunch.
-I'm afraid you'll kill me- I said.
-I won't kill you- he vowed.
-If you do, let it not hurt, let me not be aware- I begged.
I didn't feel anything. Because I'm just a bit of stupid flesh, formed by ones and zeros, that preforms formal computations of patterns, blindly: (I eat, I sleep, I tremble, I dream.) Because living is about that (and not any saving grace), dying is about that, love is about that.

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