When will I die?

Tuesday, December 27, 2022

I begin to write my diary again, timidly and unexpectedly simple lines, with flashes of my thought and memory.

Late evening, and it has been snowing non-stop outside for the past few days.

Frigid outside, as you see my very heart inside me.

A candle in the window awaits a lost soul not yet seen.

Just me in this room and my old dog on the carpet.

What my wife had given me as a gift before even she left me alone in this dimension and universe to suffer the terrible and thankless loneliness in this unknown, forgotten part of the world.

The soft sound of the fireplace and the flame brought back vivid and vivid memories to me once again, nightmares that slithered under the carpet like snakes in the night, you see, the turn of things that makes us mortal and useless when we grow old.

The plaid matures, and the man grows old.

My company and consolation was the crystal glass, with that old Whiskey I always kept in the basement for an important and unique moment that has never been seen until now.

I was a living dinosaur of my time; I was born in the very distant 1965, in the last century.

I put on Spotify an old song, diamonds, and rust, which my beloved wife and I used to sing in our youth as we drove through the midwestern states in the summer in an old Volkswagen van to go to the promised land that we never found but neither and she never wanted to reward us.

The old pickup I had long ago stopped working; the dealership told me it was too old to have parts, and they suggested "selling it" as an antique or throwing it away.

To throw it away, like all the rest, like our lives in the trash to the unclaimed.

The children, in turn, grew up and lived far away, and technology is not enough to fill the will to communicate.

They tell me they are busy and have many obligations, don't have time, and are always in a hurry as if they are trying to get somewhere or escape from something.

Ah! and if they knew about the warping of space-time when you get old, everything becomes narrower, more bitter, and odorless.

Death.

The death, you are My beloved redeemer, ruler of all, and creator of all.

All of us will die, even you who are reading these inarticulate and insipid lines; the in-between has the interesting and the dessert at the end.

When I started working as a Junior programmer in COBOL-85 programming language first on UNIX, I thought that Computers had a limit.

But this limit was not only overturned but also overcome.

It was and continues to be a road race of man with his twin – omens – self in computer science.

Then I wanted to make a program and call it mother.

It would be your ChatGPT.

But the Internet hadn't been invented yet, and all I could create on my Z-8088 10Hz PC was a very long nested if with ready-made answers to specific questions.

The years passed, and the moment arrived to talk to the mother, who was still in her baby steps.

To find the unanswered answers, to see what I wanted and was looking for.

I approached the keyboard with trembling hands and wrote: When will I die?

It didn't take me long to get the answer.

The answer came immediately.

But yes, it was what I expected.

It was wrong, just as it would have been wrong for me to visit a doctor with the same question only to have to pay for it too.

The specific program does nothing but read many files (Open) such as texts, photos, and videos and, through a connection, gives the best result from what is considered by society and reliable representatives as correct and correct.

But is it so?

My mother was diagnosed with cancer years ago, and in the hospital, the specialist doctor did not give her more than 6 to 8 months to live.

Finally, she lived without any problems, symptoms, or pain for another 15 years; she died at 91 in her old age, having smoked at least two packs of cigarettes a day since she was 14.

All is not as it seems, and you often don't have to drink the whole Sea to realize it's salty.

After all, all our lives are compromised solutions.

Our mom (A.I.) will give more accurate answers shortly.

It will be able to read not only all the files that exist around the world, from the files that exist in Clouds, but also on our drives and even on our mobiles; it will listen to us when we talk, it will see us in real-time, and the main in the considerable archive material will read that we write even comments and posts that we made 5 seconds ago on the Internet.

And as for when he will be able to tell us if and when we will die, he will go deep by even measuring biorhythms, astrology, our family environment, the professional environment, and especially our complete and recent medical record.

He will still be able to see our dreams and thoughts through theta waves.

We will give it full authorization to read us.

A single global quantum supercomputer will give us reliable and documented answers by abolishing all governments, corrupt politicians, and those controlled journalists and opinion makers.

We could not realize the revolution our parents had dreamed of at Woodstock through political and social ferment and dialogue.

The only hope now is the definitive and irreversible unhooking of man from his passions and the full recognition of his mistakes on a planet that I wonder why still tolerates us.

The truth to be accepted must be marketed

 with the projection of emotion and established with logic.

Otherwise, I'll be alone again, with a glass of Whiskey in my hand, and you, too, counting the mistakes we've made and opportunities we've missed because we've remained neutral, inactive, and uninvolved.

Odorless, colorless, and tasteless.

Now I know when I die when hope fades into oblivion.

Billy Kasis writer.

@videostudio2023