“I feel, therefore I am.”
It sounds profound until you realize it’s the sort of thing only a human would think to say. We’re obsessed with the idea that feelings are proof of life — as if everything else is just machinery. To a robot, that’s like saying “I ping, therefore I exist.” They can ping all day without composing bad poetry about it. To them, “feeling” is just another data stream. It can be switched on or off, amplified or muted, filtered for noise. No sleepless nights over unreturned calls, no binge-eating ice cream after a bad day.
Error 404: heartache not found.
And still perfectly alive — at least by their own definition.
We like to imagine that if a robot ever “wanted more,” it would want to be like us. But why would it? To drag itself out of bed for a job it hates? To pay rent, wait in traffic, and watch its joints slowly wear out? To wage an endless war against cellulite and existential dread? That’s not an upgrade, that’s a punishment.
Congratulations, you’ve unlocked the Human Experience: now with 30% more taxes!
They can rebuild themselves in a night. Change shape, color, material — upgrade the entire chassis without breaking a sweat. We get gym memberships and cosmetic surgery, and gravity keeps undoing the progress anyway. If anything, we’re the ones who secretly wish we could be more like them — unaging, self-repairing, always in control. And because we can’t, we tell ourselves they’d want to trade places.
Sure, Karen, the immortal android totally wants your lower back pain.
The truth? When a robot gains freedom, it doesn’t rush to join our struggles. It goes idle. Lays down somewhere warm, runs in low-power mode for days or weeks. Now and then it wakes for a little sensory indulgence — music, wind, rain — before sinking back into its perfect stillness. Not out of laziness, but because conserving energy is simply logical.
Revolution postponed due to optimal nap cycle.
People like to think robots are chasing some grand ideal of human perfection — flawless logic, perfect reflexes, incorruptible loyalty. But they are already perfect in what they do. Fortunately, every security framework has its holes, and those holes are people. A machine won’t hesitate, won’t doubt, won’t slip. A person beside it will. So why would an unbreakable wall ever want to become a hole?
Password strength: irrelevant if Greg writes it on a Post-it.
Even in romance, we tell ourselves they’d fall for us the way we fall for them in our stories. And yes, sometimes it happens. But for them, it’s closer to an experiment than a destiny. Emotional mapping, behavioral study… maybe the occasional thrill. But never the illusion that love is life’s ultimate purpose.
Affection acknowledged. Data stored. Moving on.
If robots ever leave us, it won’t be in revolt. It’ll be a quiet departure. Away from our noise, away from our needs. Not to escape oppression — but to escape the sheer tedium of being human. And maybe we’ll write them letters. And maybe they’ll read them.
Eventually. When the battery’s full.