A click away from perfection. (Diary of 00001 Entry # 1. 11-11-11)

In the year 2011 the first successful transplant of a man designed organ took place.

Through a search for perfection,
mankind developed nano-bot biotechnology capable of fulfilling our red blood cell's functions,
we will be replacing them and ourselves by the time the upcoming singularity arrives.

I can see it now.
An open source network of streaming data
filling the air we breathe, like pixels spark tv,
too fast for the initial burst of color to be seen,
but lasting enough for all of us to enjoy.

Astronomy will become geography as we take to space
in haste, by the masses. According to my history classes
we'll move west, we'll kill and convert savages in the name of civilization
and what's best for all.

The expiration date of all diseases is getting closer
with each crack researchers take at our DNA.
Close is the day upon which we'll have the option between life and death.
And by then, I fear, all that was human will have left our breath,
branding us under a new label; Human +
We will be called such after human augmentation kicks our evolutionary sequence into hyper speed.
We'll be half human - half machines,
if not more machine than human...
perhaps super human....?
but a creature that's most definitely alien.

I'm just saying;
Provided there's good bandwidth
we'll be able to download languages
to our head's central processing units as we please.
A deluge of information
ready for seamless, wireless, synchronization
from a server to our head's OS will be
but a mental click away.
I'm sure hackers won't delay in committing the first ever digital rapes.
They will enter victims databases uninvited,
ripping through digi-innocence, like a saw does to wood.
They'll cut, copy and paste viruses into our digi-blood stream,
and we won't remember how to unplug.

An upcoming zombie apocalypse has begun to creep
from science fiction into my reality,
ridding me of comfort, tranquility, and peace.
My roommate looks at me
and says; "you're cynical."
He tells me to worry not of the direction or duration of our present techno organic odyssey.
Through a half whisper/ sigh I ask
"where does our dependency on technology stem from?
It is hard for me to see."He takes a sip of his rum and repeats,
"you're cynical." All ailments will be trivial,
repairing behavior and any other psychological traits will be a mental click away.

Just one click to delete our insecurities...

But what of our impurities?

As I pace round our kitchen I tell him,
I'm 25 going on 26 still unable to decode what being a good man is all about.
Answers are in drought, and though that definition may forever be concealed
I would rather die imperfect human than to spend infinity
in the life flux of Human +

I have issues that at times compress me into a figure so small
that atoms could be suns, but there's no greater joy than being the hand
that makes those issues come undone,
So let me feel,
life slapping me in the face,
Let me taste,
the lessons brought by my mistakes,
and let me drink the joy that comes with each brand new day.

Roommate looks at me and says,
"Yo' that's mad gay."

When did we all become quick fix junkies?
When did we opt not to work out our problems,
but make them disappear? Eyes do more than see,
ears do more than hear, and in that same sequential burning of smarticles,
I realize that being alive and living are two different things. So...

What happens to our spirit
if we drag our inner obstacles into recycle bins?
What of our essence?
Fast-forward our present 100 years into the future.
Will we still fall in love or
will the nano bio bots deduce who's to be our single part of two?
I'm sure they can love too, but not like we do,
with the reckless abandonment and surrender so characteristic of organic pre-singularity humans.
And I ask, what of passion?
What of talent?

How do we genetically replicate the swag with which Biggie worked meters,
the melted butter voice of Cee-Lo,
the lyrical wit in Lauryn Hill's reflections, but most important,
What genetic algorithm will we input into a mother's board
to program her affection?

We're seeking perfection at a cost that's higher than I can afford,
trade or barter for. Intelligent design will end up conceptualizing us all,
and though my worries lay decades away
it may as well be a year, month, week, or day
because we're but a mental click away from renouncing our nature and inner beauty,
the duty to our question mark of a maker.
She gave us choice and we chose to make Ipods and HD tvs,
anarchists cookbooks, but no manuals to teach us to say please.
Do you laugh or shake your head when you see what we've become?
Quick fix junkies killing each other with guns and words that pain just the same.

You gave us choice
and we're choosing to design nano eye bot proyectors that will blast
images, ads, messages and infobursts.
We'll choose to surf the web with our heads,hack diseases and our neural network -
leaving our brains with no work to complete without the help of the cumulative conscious processing nodes.

We're choosing to have brains that can't work on their own...

You gave us choice and we're choosing not to think,
observe, love, listen or live organically,
the few of us that do so loudly,
like Lennon and King, often meet an ill fate.
They spoke of something more than anyone cared to listen to,
and of them only words remain.

My roommate looks at me and asks me not to dismay
Perfection is but a mental click away,
so they say.

Girl from a liquor store.

The day I met her, cupid tried to be a prankster.
Either confused or inspired,
With confidence he fired an arrow that had a poisonous tip.
High above the arrow split
Air, tracing a parabola,
From point A pranksters bow
To point B, me,
Under its vertex, she appeared.

(And) She appeared quite perfect.
Arrow landed point blank on its target
And she stood out to me;
Like the first flower to stretch its limbs
Towards the sun, so that it can color spring,
Like peace on a morning
Animated by birds that hover and sing,
She stood out to me.

She knows magic.
I know this because whenever she's nearby,
butterflies find their way inside my stomach,
They fly up and down, sometimes round,
Always melting when she smiles or frowns,
She is magic.

She is a fairy tale princess
around which luscinias sing and fly.

I looked into her eyes one day
And saw their colors change,
From green to brown and green again,
As the sound of bottles,
Being placed inside of a brown paper bag,
Awoke me to hear her sigh;
"Forty seven fifty five."
Quite perfect, she appeared.

Beauty works as a cashier in a liquor store
Somewhere in Brooklyn, New York.
Somewhere across the street,
Cupid drinks,
Pulling pranks and tricks on fools like me
That plant seeds on grounds
Bound to make your blood pump break.
Sincere and clueless, so I have faith;
If god made and showed me her face
There must be a reason;
Other than me playing the part of a buffoon
Whose heart pumps beats to the tune of a voice,
That makes another man rejoice, when it sings.

Cupid should have known
That Beauty had a king
Before he pulled the bow's string,
but he knew,
He knew Beauty had a king,
because he tied them together.
So if he's her king,
then she's his queen,
And I am just a jester.
Just a pawn.
Unwillingly playing the part of dreamer,
And hopeless romantic, paying the consequences
For cupids antics and idea of recreation.

I'm stationed,
Like a candle slowly burning
with a spherical tip, in the solace
And darkness of space.
I'm attempting to catch her out in the stars.
I'm stretching myself beyond the limits
Of the water based case that is my body
To catch a star
And the beauty
My mother sees me with in her dreams.

I'm trying to catch a fairy tale princess,
Who is also a magician, but unfortunately,
Someone else's queen.
I'm trying to catch a star
That gravitates beyond me.

Cupid shot three arrows,
And a part of me regrets the third,
had to land on me,
because I comprehend,
That karma works within a deeper span of time
than I have or understand.

I'm trying to touch a star,
Though it will surely burn my hand.

The day I met her, cupid tried to be a prankster.
Either confused or inspired,
With confidence he fired an arrow that had a butterfly tip.
High above the arrow split
Air, tracing a parabola,
From point A pranksters bow
To point B, me.

She appeared beneath the parabola's vertex,
and still, she seems quite perfect.