Strange thoughts cast organic bubbles over plastic heads. They wade through polystyrene rivers to get to you, Hephaestus.
Hephaestus stared in open wonder at them, more than a thousand homunculi of plastic souls shook with ersatz life as they began to "wake". Pouring out of his forge in droves, the cathartic drone of simulated consciousness shook his workshop and cracked the exhausted mould from which they came. New animatronic wonder as they explored their artificial lives.
Just like us.
"Hephaestus, you can't keep them." Boomed the smith's internal monologue. Hephaestus knew this; they couldn't exist, they shouldn't even be, but there they were. Nearly living.
They probed their surroundings with collective awe, their pseudo-consciousness looking every bit as real as their synthesised movement.
"They have to go, Hephaestus."
Hephaestus, eyes wet with remorse, reached for his hammer.
As the homunculi's creator rose above the world of plastic souls before him, their synthetic hopes pooled in holistic interest. Chemical dreams, abstract to the organic ether they were fostered in. Life, wonder, belief, routine. Time blinked elastic constance to their brief polyethylene existence.
Routine scribed a synthetic interest,
As distance fogged their recycled horizon.
Hard plastics bleed together,
Mixing colours and compounds.
Until their swirling indifference,
Palettes a spectral tainted sky.
A manufactured shade of sunrise,
To their polyesoteric lives.
Hephaestus stared in open wonder at them, more than a thousand homunculi of plastic souls shook with ersatz life as they began to "wake". Pouring out of his forge in droves, the cathartic drone of simulated consciousness shook his workshop and cracked the exhausted mould from which they came. New animatronic wonder as they explored their artificial lives.
Just like us.
"Hephaestus, you can't keep them." Boomed the smith's internal monologue. Hephaestus knew this; they couldn't exist, they shouldn't even be, but there they were. Nearly living.
They probed their surroundings with collective awe, their pseudo-consciousness looking every bit as real as their synthesised movement.
"They have to go, Hephaestus."
Hephaestus, eyes wet with remorse, reached for his hammer.
As the homunculi's creator rose above the world of plastic souls before him, their synthetic hopes pooled in holistic interest. Chemical dreams, abstract to the organic ether they were fostered in. Life, wonder, belief, routine. Time blinked elastic constance to their brief polyethylene existence.
Routine scribed a synthetic interest,
As distance fogged their recycled horizon.
Hard plastics bleed together,
Mixing colours and compounds.
Until their swirling indifference,
Palettes a spectral tainted sky.
A manufactured shade of sunrise,
To their polyesoteric lives.
Wow, this was magical!
ReplyDeleteWhat a beautiful piece of writing :)
ReplyDelete