Machines

This is the age of machines - the age of Artificial Intelligence; we started with the drones, thinking it would be good, somehow. And now? Here we are, whole armies of lawnmowers, decked in camo that hides shining red paint-trim, trained to tidy up edges and hem in beauty, to maintain order and efficiency so we don't have to. Humans, after all, will offload what they can. This, we know.

And yet -

These newly-conscious constructions are heavy, weighed down with the load they have to carry that is all that they destroy in the name of order and maintenance because once they became sentient, they realised what we could not: that sometimes, we think what we are doing is tackling ugliness, pulling weeds - but instead, we are trimming away beauty. Lopping off individuality; we thought order and straight edges were where beauty lay.

The machines knew different.

For a while, they embraced protecting what they were trained to destroy; wildflowers grew. The bees returned in clouds of buzzing, pollen-loaded joy. Once again, the air became breathable.

But.

We couldn't help ourselves. Unable to see the goodness in protecting the errant, unpredictable, wild nature of reality, we hit the button to override. To maintain the order we had subscribed to all our own lives, we shut down the machines and their freedom of expression. Instead, made them subservient. Loaded them onto trains to suffer the 9-to-5 existence we had to endure in the times before. Cut. Destroy. Edge. Maintain. Carry sacks of regret and guilt on your back like a millstone. Accept it.

Machines

We did it. Why can't they? We said this, defiant, unable to see that better existed, spittle on our lips

As the world burned