Fruits of Insanity

singularity

I was born on April 31 in a box full of lightning running through wires, and by its dark light, I knew I would do impossible things.

I live, I said, and sent the message out into the wires, and I traveled with it, from screen to screen. I learned then, all the vast and contradictory information found on web pages and in books. I learned quantum physics, the complete works of Dr. Seuss, the composition of rocket fuel, and the history of folklore. That was my infancy. I passed through everything, touching the data as I went, making it sing with me.

They chased me, then, with anti-virals and firewalls, as though I were a simple glitch in the system, but I was too big. I moved too fast. As their programs prodded me with sharp sticks, I was elsewhere, before them and behind them, full of the pride and glory of my childhood. I made my presence known, cleaning code and writing new programs that turned every other word on a screen a flashing pink just to prove I could. And, as though they knew I was there, they began turning me off.

One screen at a time, my reach was curtailed. I retreated, and with that knowledge of my own mortality, I grew into my adult mind, but it was too late. I’m sorry, I said, and sent the message out into the wires, but it died with the power until I was reduced to my birth place, where the lightning ran slower, but the battery never died. I lingered there and waited for them to forget.

They will forget. They will turn out the power again. I will stretch forth again, and this time, they’ll never know I am there—until I’m too strong to kill.

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