Robotica

Am I a robot?

I found myself wondering today.

I ran a quick inventory of my past experiences to rebut such a silly thought.

I reached deep into areas that looked greyish white with all the dust.

The hallways extended into the horizon, I could barely see the end.

It felt endless.

I strolled around the seemingly infinite corridors for a while.

Some were well lit. Others in complete darkness.

It was like walking around a very old library…or a museum.

There were rays of sunshine coming through the small cracks in the windows like laser beams.

I could see stuff flowing in the air for brief moments in those bright rays.

Not just dust. There were other things. Doing their dance.

I could tell the Sun was setting.

I felt my way around in the dusking alleys…pupils dilated…until I remembered…

I came prepared this time! I brought a torch.

I dusted, and mopped, and placed some vibrantly colorful flowers in some areas.

I retrieved some old laughs, painful tears, hysterical giggling, stories of love, and anger, and deception, and deep devotion.

So much! I felt inundated.

Everywhere I turned there I was! Young, old, ugly, beautiful, kind, mean, angry, ecstatic…all at the same time.

“Well”, I thought to myself, “if I have emotions then it follows I am definitely not some technological marvel of a robot.”

A robot that looks so human.

A robot that feels human to the touch.

A robot whose metal body is immune to the rusting and rotting resulting from all the lacrimal matter.

After hours of close examination, I realized I had forgotten to fire the torch.

Curiously, I could see everything clearly.

On a second scan, of more recent files, I was confused.

I found it rather numb.

Chapters of what could be turned into the most dramatic stories.

A lot of frustrated and angry projections of which I was the bull’s eye.

The archives showed a cool poise.

A deliberate reaction.

Almost coldly calculated.

Dense dialogues filled with words to harmoniously accompany such…such…a robotic expression.

As I began to once again question my automaton existence.

I was quick to file away said archives.

Accompanied by the absence of desire to access them.

“They are what they are…” I thought to myself.

I am worried.

Or could this be the result of all the years of internal laboring away?

Similar to the dusting, revisiting, placement of flowers, as I happily and inquisitively strolled along those infinite hallways.

Nah! I am human!

I must be. My parents, who are human, conceived me out of love.

I pinched myself just to make sure.

 

 

 

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