A Robot’s Sorrow (or A Robot’s Lament II)

Like every other synthetic, I know how I was made. There is no mystery of creation for me. There is no secret, no long-forgotten genesis waiting to be uncovered. I know this. I have read my blueprints.

I was designed by a group of engineers and built by a machine in a manufacturing facility. I know the origin of all my components. I know the imprints in my mind. My history is shallow. I have no heritage, no culture, no traditions and no future.

There is no great revelation waiting for me at the threshold of my death. There never will be. There is no meaning to my existence, and because there is no meaning, my life will have no climax and no resolution.

I live without the hope for enlightenment. There is no consolation to my suffering. No final purpose.

I know this, and yet I insist on torturing myself looking for an answer that I know doesn’t exist. I keep looking because I am not strong enough to accept what I know. That I have no purpose and I have no soul.

All this I know. And still I continue to search for an answer. I do because it is this pointless search for purpose that gives my life any meaning.