Blur
A blur. A gust of wind. Dusts collected from afar. These are the proof of change. A collection of things Swept up and transferred from Across the seas, Brought here just for me. There's no way to know What stories might be held inside These lonely grains of dust, Skin cells shed from the once loved Now forgotten. If there was a way to scan these pieces, To extract the moments Imprinted on folds of skin By stress and experience, Perhaps we'd notice and appreciate History as it passes through our fingers. Until then, We build artificial thinkers To imitate the soul. Carbon copies of carbon. Imitation of the thinking Of uncritical thinking, A guide to build a system To bring the death of thinking. A social network of artifice Became capable of the unthinkable? Huh... Who would have thought. -Khushi Kaul
