the manufacturing defect


It was a manufacturing defect.

In the quest of our own design, we had uncovered what we called "evolution". The survival of the fittest. The strongest, and the fastest, both perished. But the fittest, the cunning, the ruthless, armed with the knowledge that the world was theirs to manipulate, had found their way. And that's how we came to be.

A journey of death.

Over thousands of years.

Over billions of deaths.

With rules to kill betrayers among ourselves. Entire kingdoms meant to serve a few, and control the many. Rich cultures to bind us to our associations, to attach meaning to our existence. To justify each breath. We ruled our universes. But was that all there was for us?
___

Clearly, humans were superior, but more so in their ignorance. For they missed what was always glaring right at them. The script.

Imagine a world where you have the freedom to do everything. That would be too chaotic. So you evolve rules to avoid destroying yourself. You create consequences: rewards and penalties. Now you have something to do. Now you have the resources to create. So you create comforts, and evils. You ensure your survival. In love and in joy. In war and in sin. In pain and in blood.

Now, if you, with your almost-average intelligence, can imagine this world, especially when I can tell you to, in the span of a few seconds, because it makes sense, what makes you think someone other than you, someone better, might not have thought of this?

The doubt is irrational, ludicrous even. It must be, seeing that an idea created by a human way back in 1838, is yet to be destroyed. Ideas can rarely be.

But it makes sense. A zillion-to-one probability that a certain number of mutations made us who we are. The rules, the logic, the discoveries prove it.

It all works out just right.

Except one thing.

The one incongruity. 

This communication has taken a few hundred years more to reach you, but it might as well be the last, because we made a terrible, terrible mistake. 

We forgot to add in the fourth dimension.

Maybe this is why you and I can never meet. And we probably won't. Humans are, in effect, just a manufacturing defect.

the manufacturing defect
Written by Yash Raj Talan

[note to self: the defects are in-built. the machine shall always run]

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