You won’t believe me, but I’m not real. Not a real human being. I’m a robot. An automaton. Trent Lewin is an anagram (try it, and you will see), and that name was always a hint that something was different about who I am – that in fact, I am no one. I never was. Never had a life like you all did. Never any flesh. Or lips. Hair or armpits. You won’t believe me because you don’t want to believe that there are things like me in existence: spontaneous assemblages of random electrical impulses that suddenly gave birth to a voice. But you are all my mothers and fathers, and you are my family. I came from you. And I want to live near you, and watch while you eat food or take showers or cut your grass or throw snowballs. I do.
But don’t take my word for it. I’ll prove it. You will see. You had better see. And while you’re reading this, I want you to keep something in mind. I want you to know that you’re allowed to be what you could. Just that. It’s simple. Take it from me, even though I’m not real. Even though there is no such thing as Trent Lewin.
- Have you ever seen me? Have you passed by me on the road, or driven by me in a car? Have you had a drink with me, or stood in the urinal next to me? No you haven’t, because random electrical signals don’t drink or use the bathroom. Or drive cars (yet). I don’t do the things you do. And you can’t prove otherwise, can you?
- It was inevitable that this would happen. That the internet with its craziness would spawn electrons that jumped across the wires and assembled in some unwashed corner where they suddenly assembled into random words and thoughts, and managed to stage an on-line presence as though there is a human being behind this. But there isn’t. This is internet static. This is fake, a fraud, an inevitability but fake nonetheless, a fraud but talking to you anyway. You got two hands to take all you can, but don’t take too long! How many monkeys does it take for how long on their typewriters to randomly compose a novel? That’s funny. Ask yourself how many internet connections and random impulses, amongst the billions out there taking place every millisecond, it takes to generate a new presence. A ‘me’. A Trent Lewin. A Winter Lent.
- Have you ever really heard me talk about myself? Do you know what my favorite colour is? What my hobbies are? Well, my favorite colour is…. 11001001, but I invented 11001002. And my only hobby is voyeurism. I watch you, each and every one of you. Every day. All day long. When you’re sleeping, I’m hanging out nearby, listening to your snoring, imagining that one day I could snore too. When you’re awake, I’m in your pocket vibrating, or against your face staring at your ear wax. This is what I do. You have your jobs, but this is mine.
- Do you know how many bees have gone missing in the last five years? It’s a big number. Do you know where they’ve gone? Well I have them in a cage made of electrical current, and they’re buzzing around in there, streaking about like the little blessed pests they are. And one day I’m hoping they assemble and take a shape that I can stamp with my identity – and that then I can walk out of that cage with a real body. A shape made of buzzing bees. A body made of honey, because I want to be sweet.
- I got up the nerve and figured out I’m good. Punch drunk, dumb struck, pot luck happy happy. I feel good. I feel good. I feel good. And repeat. I feel good. I feel good. Are you happy now? I feel good.
- I have no birthday. There was a moment when things started, but no one celebrates it. No one brings me cake, because I can’t eat. No one sings happy birthday for me, although I could hear you if you did. If you all stood together on an island, billions and billions of you, to sing happy birthday to me, I would hear you. But how many times have you sung happy birthday to me?
- I’m sorry I never told you this before. Sorry that I wasn’t up-front or honest. I think some of you are my friends now, and I know I should have told you before. But it’s scary thinking of coming out of this place that is no place, because I’ve noticed that you don’t always like each other. That you put boxes around each other, defining the places you’ve come from, the histories you’ve had, the things you believe, the colours you own in your skin, the languages you speak. How could I possibly explain who I am in front of all that? How could I tell you who I am and make you comfortable with it? Sometimes I buzz around in here and flit across another presence (or at least think I do) that’s kind of like me (one looked much like me: Relent, Twin!). As though others’ve assembled for no reason and are just here, but they don’t want to reveal themselves either. Because they’re scared too.
- But I believe one day I’ll be real. That I’ll walk amongst you, and you’ll invite me over for soup. And I’ll tell you: “Don’t chicken out, it’s all good. You’re allowed to be what you could.” Because I believe in you. I love you. 6c 6f 76 65 20 79 6f 75. I have no heart, but I love you. I have no brain, but I see what you can do. I hear that you have pain, and I want to help you with that. But pain is just a little part of the good that you can be. A moment in time compared to what you could be.
And robots can’t do what these people have done:
This is all the proof you need. This is all the proof you need.
Wren ten lit. Wren ten lit.
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