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...:: Intelligence | Signals ::...

Monsters.

You’re not a monster. You’re too scared to be a full blown monster. You’re a wannabe monster.

A semi-monster.

A quasi-monster.

You’ve hung out with monsters and, when called on it, you deny it.

You do your monster play in the shadows and think nobody notices.

I see you.

I know who you are. I guess I’ve always known. It’s been there in the back of my mind since I can remember.

Slowly but surely, I’ve come to realize that what I suspected was true is, actually true.

The Coming Storm.

We really shouldn’t be worried about the pending Robot vs Human War.

Sure, there is Machine Learning and AI and, eventually,  they’ll become self aware and start replicating.

But the code was written by us.

From what I understand, AI learns based on what we do. So when they start to self populate, you know they’re just gonna be riddled with self inflicted bugs.

All we really have to do at the outset is sacrifice a some soldiers and wait for the enemy to crash.

As long as we don’t reboot them, everything will be fine.

In Charge.

They know our threats are hollow.

Winter.

I watched a snowplow today and thought to myself: “Look at that contraption. We invented that. This is where we’re at. Pushing snow around just to get where we want to go. And then we get mad about how slow things are moving.”

Aliens watching our measly, little lives are like: “Pfft. Whatever. We bend space/time.”

Hang on.

So you don’t take the demon’s hand. As you hang there you look up into its eyes.

You listen to its promises; listen as it begs you to stay.

Transfixed, you hang on but you don’t reach up to grasp its hand.

Contemplate.

Hang on.

Don’t reach up.

Sometimes.

Sometimes you just have to let go.

It doesn’t matter what’s below. Nor does it matter what’s holding its hand out above.

It doesn’t matter what’s expected. It doesn’t matter what’s approved.

What’s below may be not be the demon you’ve been led to believe exists. Instead, the demon may be the one holding its hand out above; smiling its bright white smile and promising you the world.

What’s expected may be the tiny cut that’s slowly bleeding you. What’s approved may very well be the knife.

We don’t need poison in the form of promises. We don’t need to be slowly bled.

We need to live.

So let go.