On that day, I took the usual train away from my normal station to another place. A place out on the promontory, the shell and shingle bank that runs between the chalk cliffs of this land. There, in a hut behind the railway track, was a table. A heavy old oak table salvaged from a ship in the 17th century. A dusty and worn rug sits under the table. I slide the table off it into the corner, knocking over several chairs in my haste. I heave the rug aside to reveal a metal trapdoor.
The door opens up to a hole, with a set of iron rungs descending into the darkness below. The step irons look greasy and moist with condensation. This time, I came prepared. I trust the grip of my booted feet and gloved hands to help me descend safely. Measuring each step carefully. Wishing perhaps I had a rope and a carabiner to prevent myself. How would I even set that up? I realise you have no faith, as much as I have no idea.
Sweat prickles my armpits as I descend carefully. I feel controlled, but a cold sweat slicks me.
Thirty rungs down, I reach a concrete floor. A set of tunnels opens up into a space where they used to send messages to the Germans back in the day. This was a place for those who had forgotten their country or wanted it run by someone else.
Here is where I found the machine on another day in the summer. A machine that gave me permission to descend into my own thoughts. Here at the bottom of the world, in the warm, safe, scary place that provides me time to think. Away from the people.
This time, I came prepared. I had brought my books with me in a rucksack. There were only three, despite all my years of work. Three books full of writing, most of it terrible writing, some of it useful.
The machine requires little setup. I place the first book between the right angles of the lectern. It’s a simple set of two plates, surrounded by levers and clockwork, oiled and ready to move. I press a button on the front of the machine and leave it to do its stuff. Compiling, reading, scanning. It processes the three books in no time at all, scanned and OCR’d.
Now it analyses my words.
I don’t have to wait long.
The message is clear, it says. I can help you improve these things. Will you accept my help, or do you want to do it on your own?
While I want to do it on my own, the temptation to write in my style, to truly discover my style and become me was too much. I press the button that reads “Future Proof Me”.
These tools sit at the edges of our eyes. They keep us clear and alive but remove our humanity one edit at a time. When does the sentence you write stop being you? When can I stop breathing and let the machine take over like an iron lung?
One day, a few weeks ago, I gave myself permission to find the space to breathe. Because writing is breathing for me. I like to think that I can just sit down and launch a fully formed thought, but often that thought is crippled at birth. Half alive, praying for death. I breathe to make the journey possible. I breathe to ensure that my mind doesn’t die. I breathe to keep my organs functioning.
Similarly, my dispassionate friend helped me write by being disconnected enough to ignore the fluttering of my ideas and concentrate on the core message. But what is this meaning that we think we see? Is it something truly deep or just a mirror, a reflection of what we’re dreaming about?
I wake up. I am tired and hungry.
I realise I should get back to the surface and ease my aching legs off this cot. Delete the copies that the machine has taken and put my books back in my rucksack. It’s colder now, down here. I should be getting back home.
Richard Bown is a writer and freelance software engineer. He is the author of HUMAN SOFTWARE a novel where small-town folk go up against AI and heartless corporate profiteering. Find out more and buy at humansoftwarebook.com
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