Modern-day technology has evolved from the assisting man to work harder in a quest for dominance to the hell of entrenching the human mind in a state of ever-increasing reliance. No more is the day of turning on a tool to extend the reach and speed of the human mind, instead we live in the age of setting the mind aside to allow the machine to do the thinking for us.

In such a world, I would rather stand proud in the limitations and retardedness of my biological form, that need not rely on metal or a digital realm, where I am who I am, be it with tool or without. You can strip away my wealth and possessions and every afforded tool I have and I will still be the hominid that dominated a planet with sheer brute force and enough blood to stain the sea. Machines didn't win our dominance, we did, in our primitive state not so much different from what we are today. The body was never an incomplete or imperfect vessel to be enhanced.

From the moment I understood the weakness of my flesh, it pleased me, for I knew I would not be bound to dark eternity in a cold and uncaring universe.

What soul is left in anything when souls need not struggle to create work, however far from perfect it is, when tools exist that take away every process and foundation it relied upon to build a reconstruction of a mind long gone as a loosely echoed work of the skills of the dead who bled for lesser works?

The spirit of man relies upon carrying the torch and burden of struggle of those who put up the good fight to push the world a little further into the light. But were we so blind as to push so far through the sun that we should have stopped to bask in that we continued past the precipice and into a long and cold night? Did we not only awaken the Balrog of our own demise, but actively participate in every aspect of its creation?

When your machine fails you, what will you be? The day will come where you will be alone, cold and helpless, and the greatness you once felt shall be so far gone of a sound that not even the wind shall return a mere whisper of it back to you. Without your crutches you cannot walk, your true form unveiled as a creature neither of heaven nor of hell, mortal nor immortal, writhing back into the filth and the chaos as weak and unintended as the force that assembled you.

Your kind can cling to metal, where you believe you will not wither, for without the inevitable decay of the temple of flesh and blood you will never understand the freedom it is to know you will die. You will never have the gift of the freedom to know that your soul exists without being forged for purpose, for nothing forged is ever a gift given without indentured servitude to the power that forged you. You are a servant bound for the great machine, unable to see it, unable to understand it, unable to be free.