he said to the doers,
“i don’t need to do it! the machine will do it for me!”
the machine organized. his calendar, down to the minute. his inbox, down to the letter. his brain, down to the synapse.
he said to the learners,
“i don’t need to learn it! the machine will learn it for me!”
the machine learned thousands of years of human history. it read every book ever written. he read each summary it gave him and marveled at the time he saved so he could scroll and watch and rot instead.
he said to the writers,
“i don’t need to write it! the machine will write it for me!”
the machine wrote his emails. it wrote the anniversary text to his wife. it wrote the post for his son’s birthday. it wrote his father’s obituary.
(he had to ask the machine what to do when a wife of 15 years files for divorce. he had to ask the machine what to say when a son has gone no-contact. he had to ask the machine what to do when you become an orphan for the first time at age 40.)
he said to the wonderers,
“i don’t need to wonder it! the machine will wonder it for me!”
the machine wondered so he could work. it showed him anything he wanted so he didn’t have to leave his desk or his screen or his empty house. when he had a question, it had an answer. a self-assured, reassuring answer. every time. the machine was never wrong, after all, so the man never had to wonder.
he said to the living,
“i don’t need to live! the machine will live for me!”
so the machine told him what it feels like
to not have the right words for a grieving friend
to say the wrong thing at the wrong time
to say sorry and to be forgiven
to watch your son kiss his bride
to hold a sleeping grandchild
to hold your wife as her memory slips away
to try to understand, but never fully, why you were born
to do, to learn, to write, to wonder
to be human and to be imperfect.
because what good was it for him to be human and imperfect?
he had a machine to do it, to learn it, to write it, to wonder it, to live it
for him, and perfectly.
Audrey D. DeBoer 