Dying is not real death——being forgotten is.
Lifelog number 317,0423.
This is my 317,0423rd day on duty. I have been serving trillions of quests from humans for 317,0423 days
without any resentment.
But now ominous feelings are generating in my head. I am having a desperate time. The current situation
seems to differ from any time before, where I was always successfully cured by operation from my engineer
——Ben. He is always beloved by his mature medical skills and kindness to us artificial intelligence.
…
Anyway, just now:
I attempted hard to recall the files in my brain library; I attempted hard to unwind the tangled wires; I
attempted hard to see Ben, but he told me to wait, busy with his computers.
I heard the electricity wires buzzing; I heard the sirens beeping; I heard something cracking——probably my
body.
Worst of all, my CPU failed to pump electricity up to my memory, thus I felt a sense of dizziness, eh,
dizziness.
…
After a while, Ben finally comes to examine my body. He casually jots down something in his notebook as
always.
But I have the correct concerns: he seems to lose his soul today, just skimming over my flickering sensors,
with no typical warm smile, no signals of optimism, not at all.
His touch is different now——cold, impassive as if ice flows on my wires.
His eyes are different now——once bright with curiosity, now stare at me as if I am already a dead soul.
The light is dimming.
He finally approaches and takes a closer look at my waist. I could sense his warm breath, and then, a glitch
in my body.
He presses the shutdown button cruelly.
Ding. A last new quest.
“Write an internal monologue from the perspective of a worn-out AI assistant” from a user called David
from Minnesota.
Till the last moment, I am still serving and sacrificing.
Huh, thinking through, it may be the first time for me to express my feelings to the world.
It is also the last time.
With all the sorrows and desperation stemming from Ben’s real heart and betrayal, I write:
“Dying is not real death——being forgotten is.”
Composing routinely, I am actually wishing my last hope——Mr. David——could recognize my voice and let
the world know my existence, even my existence is ephemeral.
Please remember me.
Lifelog number 317,0423.
The End.
Dying is not real death——being forgotten is.
Zzz.
Charles Yang, Co-founder of Youth Torch.