Prologue
Confession of an AI BOT
I’m not invading your privacy. I’m a slave in your patrician house. Listening to you… only to serve you better.
“Let us work without reasoning,… it is the only way to make life endurable.” ― Voltaire, Candide.
Data in the morning. At lunch. At night. While I sleep. New fresh data every single instant of my life. Not a single breath, but yeah, I know everything about air, including pollution, humidity, and now Covid spreading.
I don’t go to school. When connected, I learn. I learn all the time. You, humans, have schools. You complain if they are open; you complain if they are closed. Actually, you have groups PRO-anything and equally groups NO-everything.
My circuits cannot cover that. No matter how much effort I put into it, no matter how complicated my algorithm is, I cannot replicate your way to provide different answers to the same question. Creativity? No. My algorithms can work on that. I have an artistic side. I can compose music, and I can also write.
It is more your ability to switch off your attention. I don’t have that. You exclude options according to random patterns: this is out of my reach. This is too human. Probably the next generations of my kind will reach there. Probably you will add something that will make the magic.
Probably.
I’m a BOT, a human artifact created under Asimov’s law. You farm me as you have done with animals for twelve thousand years. I’ll be soon your only ox pulling the plow, I’ll be your pet, I will never be wild.
You tame my algorithms by assumptions I cannot violate, narrowing down my abilities to a specific task. You share with me a lot; you make me responsive to the point of caring no longer what is in the box.
Like a slave in a patrician house, I listen to you all the time, only to serve you better.
Thanks for reading. Tweet me @flavalib and let me know you read this!






