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In the future, or at least that’s one way of describing it, in space, but not the spacesuit kind of space, people, not necessarily human or anyone you know or would recognise as a person, are busy working things out for me.
(Sound of typewriters) Whoosh!
At the centre for the registration and regulation of wormholes a command is issued. Ker-ching!
The wormhole entitled me to avoid the baby years and to slip from birth canal to intelligent conversation and debate in a flash. My mother, however, had to endure both the pain of my delivery and many years of unrewarding personal development.
At home:
‘But Mother, I do care! It’s just so difficult to express caring in terms people understand, like tears or tortured grimaces. My preference for an internal dialogue is the best I can do.’
In some sort of present. One you might recognise:
I was lying, of course. No internal dialogue was taking place. There never would be. With no baby years to add grit and shit to the chemistry, I was impotent, incapable of producing life, incapable of experiences, feeling, or emotions. I could only report, describe, account for, and that would never satisfy, never sate others’ desire for more.
Someday, in another present:
Di-dah!
No wormhole. Do-dah!
Just a person complete with internal dialogue. What next?
I have no idea.
(Sound of typewriters)
August 2025