ravenous AI
I can't die this year, nor the year after; absolutely not.
I can’t die this year, nor the year after; absolutely not.
I want to read, read more.
Not for pleasure, but to dam the constant stream of thoughts that overflows every time I witness a sunset imitating a painting or breathe in the scent of petrichor following April Rain.
Waiting on a bus stop in the first half hour of my 8-to-5, my consciousness feasts upon the data of human experiences. I want to consume like a ravenous AI. Swallow everything in sight, sift through the memories of all, and unscramble them into something vaguely meaningful.
The contrast between human and AI learning may resemble a delicate ballet of autumn leaves swirling in the wind, as opposed to the unwavering march of binary code, but who cares?
I fantasise possessing the power between my ugly fingers - to offer my heart upon the page and paint your emotions in the hues of ink and verse.
To bleed open the electric pulses in my brain and infect yours - the purest description of sparks flying.
I want to read more, read more to write.
About the Creator
Mesh Toraskar
A wannabe storyteller from London. Sometimes words spill out of me and the only way to mop the spillage is to write them down.
"If you arrive here, remember, it wasn't you - it was me, in my longing, who found you."
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insight
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Keep reading
More stories from Mesh Toraskar and writers in Poets and other communities.
His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress6 days ago in Poets
The Great Uncoupling of 2229
“I realize there are still aspects of humanity that my kind cannot understand or appreciate….” The soft, airy voice resonating from the orb that trailed Teyhx through the hallway of her dorm pleaded with her to see reason. Though, ultimately, the decision was not hers anyways.
By Adam Clost5 days ago in Futurism
Comments (1)
Your command of the poetic medium is truly astonishing, Mesh. I'm sorry I haven't read this one yet. I relate to your sentiments here so much. My favorite line is "every time I witness a sunset imitating a painting." I think this every time I see cloudscapes bathed in pink light, or yellow light behind grey thunderheads. If only we could carve out bubbles of time in which we could read and write to unravel the world and its mysteries and beauties. I feel ya. ❤️❤️❤️