Cosmic crisis. You can call it karmic chaos. This loss of life. Our whole existence a crisis of conscience.
Such a nuisance, the hubris of a human. The passion. The rage. The fear we couldn't face, manifesting as the war we waged. Turning away from charades...shedding the masks we wore to hide our demons by day.
Self saboteurs by nature. We didn't fall, we just never reached grace. There would be no Jesus, no savior, no man with a cape. Just our egos, our faith....and fate.
And we called out to our creator to no avail. Our wails just echos in open space.
We sailed to the edge of the Earth to seek what we craved. There was no God, no guide, no trail left paved.
We reached out to our maker, but the silence couldn't save us and no semblance of peace remained. The black hole, that the absence of hope left in humanity, didn't pale in comparison to the way we failed as a species. We knew too much to have no meaning.
So the universe wasn't much surprised, when we decided to program our own demise in AI.
Our intelligence was artificial long before our art was officially comprised of all the hate we let our gardens grow with the seeds we'd sown. Our creation turned against its creator, as we had our own.
|