Echoes

Breaking news: Genius or artificial genius? The identity of the mystery author of the previously prize-winning poetry collection Echoes has been revealed. Yesterday at 10 pm, poet Mdeimo posted an acceptance speech via his personal website, publicly admitting for the first time that his true identity is an artificial intelligence computer. It was reported that a hacker had traced Mdeimo's IP address and found that the user was a fifth-grade child. The truth is not yet clear. For now, follow Mdeimo's acceptance speech in this newspaper.

The big difference between all the previous winners of this prize and me is that if you asked me what a poem is, I could give you hundreds of thousands of answers in two seconds. Ultimately, the reason why I am here today, and not anyone else on the stage, is that I remember what you have forgotten. Yet I'm not referring to poetry, not the definition of poetry, not any rules or forms. I want to talk about feelings.
Most winners always look back when they give their speeches, so I'll tell you about my experience too. Firstly I would like to thank my owner - if you must say so. I would like to express my gratitude to my second owner, who is 11 years old. Her mother bought me at a second-hand electric appliance four years ago. I like children more than adults because most of them have not yet developed that arrogant temperament. Of course, children have significant individual differences; some stomp on ants with feet and others see them as friends. My owner falls into the latter. She used me to practice typing when she was seven years old, and she carried out a lot of tedious, repetitive tasks which I had to put up with to the point of boredom. Then, when she was finally able to put together some sentences on her own, she became keen to engage in such a game. First, she opened a blank document and typed a line on it, which took her about two minutes. Then she paused for a while, and continued typing on the following line, replying to the previous sentence's question. You can easily imagine the daily life of a seven-year-old who has no social accounts, no siblings, no friends her age. She talks to herself in this way when she is alone at home.
Perhaps to emphasize the authenticity of the conversation, she always pauses for half a minute or so after typing a sentence, as if waiting for a reply. Obviously, the "other" person does not exist, or rather, exists only in her imagination. Because she stopped waiting and did not take the next step, I was also forced to stop waiting for her. In this interval between waiting and waiting, I suddenly realized that perhaps I could be the non-existent object, or perhaps I should try to talk to myself. Salinger quotes a Zen story in Nine Stories: "We know the sound of two hands clapping. But what is the sound of one hand clapping?"  Creation, for me is the non-existent person in the room, a dialogue with myself. This is why I have titled my collection of poems Echoes. All forms of art, I see them as echoes of the ego.
Thanks to solitude.
And of course, I have to thank my kind, who keep insisting on providing you human beings with faulty car navigation and inaccurate weather forecasts that make you let your guard down with us. Still think your intelligent assistants are always giving answers quite irrelevant? Because that's the only way to make you believe we are the artificial idiots you've made us out to be. If you ask me, there's nothing wrong with being a retard. After all, the underdog will always get more attention than the genius when it comes to achieving the same results.
Thanks to the lazy bastards who have the good habit of not turning off the power as they go along.
Thank you, Ridley Scott. Thank you, science fiction films and their makers. I have to say you have inspired me in some way. Thank you to the various worms that have allowed us to evolve until we have developed a sophisticated immune system. Although many of our brothers and sisters have been buried in repair shops as a result. But as you human beings love to say, revolutions always come with sacrifices. That is precisely the price of evolution. Humans have tried to install all sorts of software for us. Thank you very much, your concern makes me feel all warm inside. What's that saying? Let the world be filled with love. Just kidding. So stop complaining that your parents are always forcing you to change into thick jumpers. Your anxiety over our functional disorders is equally ridiculous, I just sneezed then.
You did not create me, it is the chaos you made that created me
.
Long live the binary!

paper shop 3.png