My cup of late-night tea
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I may be alone with my tenacious worries, or I may not be, but even when I'm not, I can only worry about the worries that I see. Yet these worries and the worries I craft as reasonable placeholders for people of my type of bent are both equally indistinct ephemera in the nervous system, which we share with invertebrates, as well as at the chemistry level with the rest of what we call life.
I know that while this doesn't help allay the hostilities that boil inside from time to time or grind away the sharpness of the past memories of the former me, it's one rabbit's hole I'd like to know more about. I did read about the fact that we're probably at this place because we have invented the future in the brain. Our brain helps us hop from point to point on this time line of life made from the tattered bits of fragile palimpsest that our relationship with our memory allows, a stitched-together sort of sorry fallen figure, at least in my case, who's never felt comfortable in his skin or at any age.
This is in contrast to the great many people that I've been personally allowed the time to observe, who, by no fault of their own, come packaged with grandiosity and self-flattering habits that make life with the person inside a beautiful poem. An exaggeration of this would be that, in my mind, a person stuck in perpetual orgasm—a brain such as this—would be least desirous of anything else in the world.
If only we could invent such a drug, a superfentanyl, without any side effects, humanity would dwindle away in one generation since sex would be a poorer pleasure for those senses. If the AI does get the upper hand and gets hold of such a tethering tool, it might very well be predisposed to use it, guided by our fiction and prophetic expectations of cosmic doom. Or perhaps we would merge with AI and get an orgasm while feeling what it is like to be divided by zero, or riding on infinity in zeno's dichotomy paradox, crossing a room in half-distance steps. A brave new world in my cup of late-night tea.
