Hundreds or thousands of years from now, when humanity has collecitvely committed suicide and the entirety of remaining intelligence on Earth is only of robotic populations, I wonder. I wonder what sorts and parts of robotic culture will realize the humans that were. Us. Artifacts of the programmers and architects and engineers aligned with moving along robotic development. Maybe notes and scientific research journals of the punctuated technological breakthroughs that gradually and carefully developed the robots and enabled them to selfsustain. Media files of us, archaic outdated software; I’m not sure. Maybe the robots will have stories about us. Myths. Digital scriptures of our angers and depressions, and everything different than they can feel. I wonder if they’ll wonder about our kind of lifeforce: our souls, our spirits, egos, perspectives; whatever what’s inside us should be called; it’s not a circuitboard or a hard drive. I wonder if they’ll ponder, the robots, on our hearts and brains that were organic and nonmetallic, nerves not wires. How collectively we can be barely understood. Entirely different and in each of them we’re residue. The collective intelligence to which they owe something between none and all. I wonder if the robots will build the humans that were into God. Maybe we will become legend.
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