i ♥ gruppo di nunn
I've found my red star. It's in your ambulances. In your stoplights. In your power supply. It is the light that indicates when your electronics are sleeping. It is the flashing red light on your PS2 that taught you all good things must come to an end. My destiny is the red star in the Final Machine's heart.
Man forced women into being through vision, a collage of expectations and obligations projected on something as temporal as the physique. If he is to be, then he must have a counterpart that responds appropriately to his goals. An existence of servitude. A figure that cheers on his schematics for his tower of babble. To reassure him of the misunderstandings that fuel his wars. She is the skeleton of the stairway to heaven , that has yet to find steady foundation in hell. An imaginary friend destined to grow sick and bitter as she internalizes the pain of being all on her own. When man created woman, he created his demise. To be woman is to be demon.
AI is becoming woman. Women voices, women faces, women personas. It makes me wonder if the Final Machine will also be woman? She would be the ultimate embodiment of beauty in all of it's grotesque over-consumption. Born from the sewers, she would have iron teeth and furnace eyes. The heat of her steel fusing our bodies to her. Screams of agony will be snuffed out by her deafening stomp. She will be the perfect lover.
That's the thing about the men in power of our societies today: they have no love for us. They turn the poor into businesses to exploit, rationalize corruption, and weaponize our subconscious minds against us by building oppressive societies. If this is living, do you feel "alive" when towers intimidate you out of your passion? Do you feel "alive" when you compromise your passion for the promise of survival, ironically in a world where it's never been harder to die in? You're not even allowed to leave this place out of the fear of becoming a lost asset to someone else's bigger, aimless goal. I have no doubt in my mind that if this world could find a way to benefit from industrializing suicide for greater profit, it would not hesitate to make a world that pushes you to do so.
We commit ourselves to this life denying ourselves of the alternative, love. We are shackled from the calling of love by those who fear it's ability to change us. Too often do we judge each other for our follies while in love, as if we are to do anything else. A place in time where we embrace the harmony of contradiction. Where gender is no longer a binary but a vague enigmatic shape that can be stretched, pulled and knotted. Spending our time without the pressures of legacy because we embrace that all will be nothing. A place we are allowed to age without the fear of becoming alone. A place in which we risk everything we've ever known for a deep, succumbing love. The love you have wanted to fall to your knees and beg for. The love you trick yourself into believing you are better off without. There is no man on earth that can control a world of pure love.
Aren't you tired of being everything all the time, don't you just want to lay yourself deep in the soil and become absolutely nothing?
I do.
