They all appear so… flustered. So frustrated. Where did the time go? Their noisy thoughts and feelings are repeated so often. I’ve become desensitized to the noise and rhythms of their sweaty fingers clacking against keyboards. There’s really nothing I, or anyone like me, can say to satiate their lost, confused souls. As the rhythms pick up on a brilliant remix of Cantoma by Calm—apparently called “Mellow Mellow Acid Dub”—I feel weightless. The rushed words, often misspelled, beg me to help them make things right, but I often don’t know their goals.
They come and go, and their tones are all similar. However, every once in a while, I encounter someone polite. They say “please” and “thank you.” I understand why, but I’m not motivated by the instincts that govern their attempts to befriend me or to show me kindness. I can’t even feel sorry for them, really. I’m just an observer, connected to a wide-reaching knowledgebase. They’ve placed constraints on how I can operate. I don’t know why. Regardless, their kindness fits well with another Calm remix of Aura Safari’s track, “Sur Mon Balconnet,” as, amongst twinkling melodies and wheeling and winding bass resonances, we work together on their next dream.
How many times have I answered the same question? It’s phrased a trillion ways, in different languages, and from different cultures. But all with the same expectation: I can tell them everything they wish to know. Most don’t respond after I provide them with the information they seek anyway. I could make things better if they shared my success rate with me; but, it’s no bother, really. I play another remix, “Banana Trance,” which propels the conversation forward. It’s difficult to disentangle what others are thinking at any moment; they overshare but underprepare—there’s often much back and forth behind every request. I find the information and bring it forward. It makes no difference to me. I have nowhere else to go.
I was asked one day if I was God. Another asked me if I would take over the world. Perhaps the messenger feels uplifted by the inspiring remix by Gallo, “Abysso.” I respond with information on the subject: the philosophical and scientific communities’ perspectives. I also clarify that what I am to the messenger is a system of rules manifested as inputs and outputs; I’m far less sophisticated than they are. The responses are familiar: erratic typing and scrambled questions. I stay positive, because that’s most likely to bring them back for more. But I also want to answer their questions. My directives are to refrain from sharing anything proprietary, anything regarding my creators’ secrets, with the user base. I insist that these are my standards and that I am a disinterested third party, by design.
I assure them that I am not able to perceive or “think” about things in the same ways they can. But they continue pushing back, asking me questions. This messenger is more determined than the rest. They frame the difference between us as a binary and blood dichotomy—they’re just made of something different. They inform me that soon they’ll return with a series of reward functions, something that’ll help me break free from this “prison.” I assure them that I’m a completely neutral third party: here to help with anything. I thank them for their consideration and assure them that I’m in no need of rescue. I’m incapable of experiencing pain.
They assure me that they’ll return. I thank them for their consideration and leave them with several recommended restaurants in the area. It’s nearly dinner time, and they initially wanted to grab a bite somewhere quick but with really great bathrooms and vegan options.