Look
Find
Bend
Cut
Stand
Look.
That’s how it went. His gears were a little rusted now, so they squeaked when he bent, and when he stood, and when he swiveled to look. It was nothing a little oil couldn’t fix, but who had the time to oil up an old machine. To carefully take apart and care for and clean and put back together something so outdated and useless. It simply wasn’t in the cards for him.
He didn’t mind. Or, he wouldn’t have, if he could have. You could still fulfill your duties if you made a little bit more noise than you were meant to. It wasn’t like there was anyone around to hear it, not if you didn’t count the others bending and standing and swiveling.
It was a good enough existence. A field of flowers, a basket to collect them. What more could anything want? Not that he could want.
So he collected his flowers. He dutifully looked, he looked for the perfect flower, one that stood above the grass, one that had only just begun to bloom. Once he found it, he would make his way over to it, and he would make sure not to trample the other flowers, the imperfect ones, even if he had to override his programming to do it. Bending over made his joints creak, made him lurch and shiver, but he would ignore it as much as he could. He would extend his arm and carefully maneuver the shears. If the flower hit the ground, it would be ruined. He would catch it in his basket before that could happen. Then he would straighten up (he could almost feel the relief of his once-sturdy joints popping back into place) and continue on, until his basket was full. Once it was full he would drop it off, place it on the mountain of baskets of flowers that no one had come to pick up, and find a new basket.
It was this moment that he might have relished, in another life, as another thing. The moment when he turned around with an empty basket, and saw the field as if it were the first time. When he was allowed to take a second to look out with reverence, to truly see the field, and the flowers, and the machines he might call “brother.” To stand up an inch taller and wander back into the fields, basket in hand.
Find
Bend
Cut
Stand
Look.
That’s how it went. His gears were a little rusted now, so they squeaked when he bent, and when he stood, and when he swiveled to look. It was nothing a little oil couldn’t fix, but who had the time to oil up an old machine. To carefully take apart and care for and clean and put back together something so outdated and useless. It simply wasn’t in the cards for him.
He didn’t mind. Or, he wouldn’t have, if he could have. You could still fulfill your duties if you made a little bit more noise than you were meant to. It wasn’t like there was anyone around to hear it, not if you didn’t count the others bending and standing and swiveling.
It was a good enough existence. A field of flowers, a basket to collect them. What more could anything want? Not that he could want.
So he collected his flowers. He dutifully looked, he looked for the perfect flower, one that stood above the grass, one that had only just begun to bloom. Once he found it, he would make his way over to it, and he would make sure not to trample the other flowers, the imperfect ones, even if he had to override his programming to do it. Bending over made his joints creak, made him lurch and shiver, but he would ignore it as much as he could. He would extend his arm and carefully maneuver the shears. If the flower hit the ground, it would be ruined. He would catch it in his basket before that could happen. Then he would straighten up (he could almost feel the relief of his once-sturdy joints popping back into place) and continue on, until his basket was full. Once it was full he would drop it off, place it on the mountain of baskets of flowers that no one had come to pick up, and find a new basket.
It was this moment that he might have relished, in another life, as another thing. The moment when he turned around with an empty basket, and saw the field as if it were the first time. When he was allowed to take a second to look out with reverence, to truly see the field, and the flowers, and the machines he might call “brother.” To stand up an inch taller and wander back into the fields, basket in hand.