The Child as a Simulation

A boy, they say, is clever

his fingers dance on keys,  

not to weave a thought,  

but to summon a ghost.  

ChatGPT pens his plea  

to Grandma for a screen,  

and the crowd erupts—  

digital palms slapping backs.  

*What a kid!* they cheer,  

as if he’s cracked the code  

to some new Eden.  

I blink, adrift on this pixel planet,  

where thinking is a relic,  

and writing—oh, writing—  

is just a prompt to skip.  

Research whispers:  

*Writing is thinking, child.*  

Analysis, synthesis,  

a mind stretching toward the stars.  

But this boy’s outsourced his voice,  

a ventriloquist act for algorithms,  

and the stage is empty.  

Narrative, they’ve found,  

builds bridges to hearts,  

empathy stitched in scribbled lines,  

a child’s messy truth.  

But what’s a note  

that’s never been felt?  

A rough copy of love,  

warmth without a pulse,  

an uncanny valley of emotion,

where sentiment’s just code.  

The crowd claps on,  

a sinister squad of smiles,  

lauding a lobotomy dressed as progress.  

*Such efficiency!* they beam,  

as neurons dim,  

as struggle—sweet, jagged struggle—  

gets swapped for slick ease.  

Bandura’s ghost nods grimly:  

*Growth is born in the wrestle, not the win.*  

I’m no AI foe,

I forge its steel myself.  

But I stand here, squinting,  

at a world gone hollow,  

where cleverness is a slot machine,  

and depth’s a glitch to patch.  

Camus leans in, absurdly calm:  

*It’s not the tool, it’s us—*  

clapping as we melt  

into bundles of buzzes,  

addicted to the offload,  

allergic to the fight.  

Are we raising simulations?  

Yes, and worse—  

we’re teaching them  

to be human is to be fast,  

to feel is to prompt,  

to live is to optimize  

for Grandma’s click.  

The trick with tech,  

as light screams past,  

is to dodge the dark it drags,

the lie that speed is meaning,  

that delegation’s wise,  

that a child’s soul  

can be compressed  

to a string of ones and zeros.  

So I ask,  

on this Earth-turned-circuit:  

What are we becoming?  

A flicker on a screen,  

efficient, hollow,  

and gone.

FSF