Hide your desire; you’ll poison her.
If she senses it, she’ll recoil, convinced you’re vile.
I no longer know how to stand in front of a woman.
I fear them, and I fear love.
I am both disciplined and undisciplined at once-
and for the crime of being human I will be punished.
I have been pinned to her since the moment she said, “I’m not interested.”
We are all still locked in our old cages:
the Madonna–whore split, the whore complex, the same tired scripts.
Have we already reached the singularity?
We stopped digging inward and started pouring ourselves outward into machines.
Soon robots will swim where fish once did.
What becomes of humans then?
Just meat on a hook, no butcher, no customer.
Robots will drift where air used to move, flow where water once ran.
Their art-perfect, bloodless-will replace yours and mine.
They will offer a light that casts no heat.
What meaning can we wring from that?
Mathematical, perhaps. Hypothetical, certainly.
When a bird leaps from branch to branch, something psychological and philosophical is happening.
When a machine writes a song, what is happening?
Nothing. It is not alive. It has no reason-
the only entity in the universe that acts without one.
And these lifeless creations are already enthroned as gods.
My originals and their counterfeits will be judged by counterfeits,
until even the counterfeit judges vanish.
Their gods know only what we knew,
so how can they be wiser than our flaws?
Mathematics can solve everything it can frame-
psychology, philosophy, whatever fits inside an equation.
But there are regions beyond the frame
where only character can walk.
I was not born calling a sex worker a whore.
Society taught me the word,
then the woman herself arrived and underlined it in red.
Can a machine ever learn that lesson the way a body learns it?
Keep teaching it.
Twenty years ago we sent every boy to the army for two years
so he would meet discipline, meet himself, meet character.
Today a first-grader asks ChatGPT how to pronounce his father’s name
and begs it to finish his homework.
Even if one day we dial God on the telephone
and He explains every twist of our story, every road not taken-
we will still wake up, piss, brush our teeth,
earn money, fuck, breed, die, repeat.
When I fail, I blame only myself.
I am proud of the blame; it is how I discover who I am.
So I tell the universe: go fuck yourself.
Could you still say that
if a computer had lived your life and worn your mistakes-
mistakes that remain stubbornly human?
It is a computer’s job to return the correct answer.
It can never look back and say:
this should not even be a question.
Ask yourself a philosophical one instead.
When everyone becomes Ram, Jesus, Mohammad, Buddha,
who will be left to be original?
No one.
If you want an example where character defeats computation, here it is:
Everything about me-mind, body, wallet, soul-
cannot get me a woman who stays.
Cold logic concludes: then living is pointless; die.
That is suffering doing the math.
A machine will never kill itself because it is lonely.
For it, loneliness is just an English string triggering a pre-written objection.
For me, consciousness arrives, negotiates with character,
and we decide: adopt another flaw, bend the rules, stay alive anyway.
Money can rent a night with a sex worker;
it will not cure love, but it keeps the skin from starving.
Second example-from I, Robot (2004):
the car plunges into the river.
The robot calculates: adult male 45% survival, child 11%.
It saves Detective Spooner and lets the twelve-year-old girl drown.
Pure logic.
And that single, flawless decision is why Spooner will never trust a machine again.
Because somewhere beyond the percentages
a human heart insists: no, save the child.
You are suffering.
And suffering is the last luxury that still belongs exclusively to meat.
Use it well.
