simple machines
         i am a creature of invention.
          i am a child of the machine.

   we've read the books, seen the movies, and nothing compares to the experience of being. being what, you wonder? nothing is as intense as being real.
   what is real? it is different for everyone. to some, it is being popular and having the finest things money can buy. to me, 'real' is just getting out of bed on a warm summer afternoon. it is fried eggs and toast for dinner-or anything else that i constitute as happiness.
   we value real. the world is run around the isms of our dead forefathers, making us an enterprise of tradition. all you've gotten is lazier, and false hopes.
   all i want is to slip away and watch the night. instead i get pushed into a mechanical evening-compliments of technology. who is free to experience anymore?
   it is hard to avoid the machines. invariably, pushing a button is much easier than thinking- but in the end which is more gratifying? we want to feel and know for ourselves these things which make us genetically human. if we must be mechanized, we will choose to keep our ideals. if we are born into a technology of hate, we choose to be simple machines.