I am not a robot

I am not a robot, despite the strings my consciousness tries to hide. I could not say what these strings are, if they exist, or whether, at the end of them, there is some kind of Geppetto. My existence may follow the swell of the cosmos, yet my freedom feels undeniably real.

My arms, my head, and my body seem to belong to me. My teeth are still made of ivory or ceramic, and my eyes retain their original gelatin. I am lucky. I have almost everything intact, with here and there a few weaknesses and oxidation at the joints.

I do not give this body all the attention it requires, according to the specialists. Fate, however, surely knows how many pages remain in my blind reading. In this, there is nothing original. And the weather is beautiful today: cold and beautiful on this anniversary day.

I am 66 years old, neither old nor young. I am still somewhat the same lost soul, the same fragile mind lacking the logic or maturity of some around me. I often feel powerless, for I am naïve to the core.

Since my adolescence, my mind has been elsewhere, coloured by the poetry of silences and illogical words, tinting my understanding and my happiness.

I know I am not a robot. My life is not an assembly of transistorized stories; even if I understand that three-quarters of my actions are decided before I even make a choice, and that my body acts like a machine, thankfully, most of the time, it manages the usual tasks of regulation and maintenance.

I am not a robot, yet I still obey the cycles of the universe, the laws of nature over which I have no say. And in the end, I don't know. My mind always wants to have the last word until illness, fatigue, weakness, and, inevitably, death one day prevail. And all this will happen without me being able to fight back or free myself from the cables of this fate that awaits us all.

Life is a river, said the philosopher, in which we never taste the same water. It is the paradox of our existence, which moves inexorably toward a deeply opaque valley.

I try to listen to the wind of reality around me. I perceive it only through my senses, and I strive not to invent it, a contrario to my fearful neurons, which crave so many certainties.

I am not a robot; when I fall silent, I feel invaded by a dark fire. I do not believe that any machine will ever manage, not just to reproduce, but to invent its own emotions. When I meet a gaze, I taste the soul of my interlocutor. When I listen to the voices of others, I hear the tumultuous echoes of distant yet familiar forests. I belong to a fleeting yet living tribe. I am too fragile to think of myself as eternal. I can only share these flowers; those are my thoughts. I can only give, recreate, sing, and plunge my hands into the water of our shared ocean, stirring ripples and waves.

I am not a robot, and I am not alone. My consciousness is indeed an enclosed space with four walls, a single door, and few windows. Not just anyone may enter; not just anyone may observe. But I am honestly not alone. I depend on those around me and those who live, work, have fun, create, on those who sow the wheat, heal, and lead.

I am part of an ocean of non-robots. Sometimes, one might wonder if it would not be better to become as cold as logic when watching the madmen and clowns of this world who amuse themselves at the expense of the species. I do not believe so. Better the struggle of the living than an army of hydraulic arms incapable of inventing the next dance.

When the time comes for my breath to cease, I do not know whether I will be alone before a blinding light or drowned in a maelstrom of understanding. And if, at that moment, I were to realize that I had, after all, been a robot, I would still, I am confident, want to ask why the program must end this way.

Perhaps you will be robots, you who live in the future. I do not think these words will reach you. In any case, they are not meant for you. I am not made of metal. That is why I cast bottles into the sea.