hellpenguin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hellpenguin) wrote2011-07-06 08:36 pm
hellpenguin) wrote2011-07-06 08:36 pm
Entry tags:
Original Fic/Poetry: Robotic Bodyswap
so I was reading this post and she was talking about Bodyswap focusing on the physical sensation and I thought...what would it be like if someone bodyswapped with a robot?
Here's the trippy part: I wrote these stream-of-consciousness. One after the other. I copied them to this post. When I went back to my word processor to determine wordcount....each piece had exactly the same amount of words. By accident.
Title: Steel/Stolen
Genre: Science Fiction
Rating: G
Warnings: loss of identity
Wordcount: 462
Inside the edges metal
cold unforgiving steel and strong
nuts and bolts
I think in
the sandpaper splinter in the skull of the moon
hard smooth except where
the welded edges melted in a flurry of silver flesh
red grit of rust rings the corners of my sensors
inside I think
I hear an echo
of blue, of tin
darkness and silence
inside I hear
machinery thump
engine pulse
the outsides of my body unfamiliar
no give no take
but solid and fixed and
certain
all so certain
I remember once
but memory is just
I remember once
remember
a
name
designation my own
already the circuits slip and spark
already the name
designation
name falls away into bits
signals burning to darkness
what was my name
I had a name
my movements are mathmatical
no sine curve no other plane only grids
name
mine
was
what
and like a glitch it is gone
Where...
.
.
they must have built me larger.
.
.
.
mind no confines or limits
no safety latch
no gravity
everything is warm and curves
and bends and glows and folds within itself
a million times over a million
times
I am flying
I am moving
I have movement
…?
sideways thought, diagonal motion
the ripple of flesh exists, mobile, flexible
oh so flexible!
I am an equator
I am beyond,
the ocean at the heart of a conch shell,
but how did I know that?
There is freedom in every direction.
At the ends of my limbs, my digits.
Digits...
(a word so familiar)
But memory is a tensile thing.
I remember so much yet so little is revealed to me,
but I feel the information flowing through my head.
It fills me up.
My veins hum with information.
I remember –
and yet –
something –
is lost to me –
something is beyond a wall. It whispers cold and solid,
licks sparks across my eyes. I flinch from it, from numbers, from memory. Across the room, I see a sculpture. No, not that. I see a ghost, and the memory feels sandpaper rough against my thoughts.
A grey creature. It moves, experimentally. Little fits and starts, like it is trying to move in directions unfamiliar. It feels similar but different, looking at it, like I should know what it is, but I don't.
The blinking lights of its sensors scan me. It jolts forward, stops itself. I am confused by its movements.
I look around. I am sitting in a chair. Wires reach from my seat to that of the creatures. Electricity crackles between us.
A name rises up in the churling waters of my mind. Jane. It is not my name.
I do not think I have a name.
Here's the trippy part: I wrote these stream-of-consciousness. One after the other. I copied them to this post. When I went back to my word processor to determine wordcount....each piece had exactly the same amount of words. By accident.
Title: Steel/Stolen
Genre: Science Fiction
Rating: G
Warnings: loss of identity
Wordcount: 462
Inside the edges metal
cold unforgiving steel and strong
nuts and bolts
I think in
the sandpaper splinter in the skull of the moon
hard smooth except where
the welded edges melted in a flurry of silver flesh
red grit of rust rings the corners of my sensors
inside I think
I hear an echo
of blue, of tin
darkness and silence
inside I hear
machinery thump
engine pulse
the outsides of my body unfamiliar
no give no take
but solid and fixed and
certain
all so certain
I remember once
but memory is just
I remember once
remember
a
name
designation my own
already the circuits slip and spark
already the name
designation
name falls away into bits
signals burning to darkness
what was my name
I had a name
my movements are mathmatical
no sine curve no other plane only grids
name
mine
was
what
and like a glitch it is gone
Where...
.
.
they must have built me larger.
.
.
.
mind no confines or limits
no safety latch
no gravity
everything is warm and curves
and bends and glows and folds within itself
a million times over a million
times
I am flying
I am moving
I have movement
…?
sideways thought, diagonal motion
the ripple of flesh exists, mobile, flexible
oh so flexible!
I am an equator
I am beyond,
the ocean at the heart of a conch shell,
but how did I know that?
There is freedom in every direction.
At the ends of my limbs, my digits.
Digits...
(a word so familiar)
But memory is a tensile thing.
I remember so much yet so little is revealed to me,
but I feel the information flowing through my head.
It fills me up.
My veins hum with information.
I remember –
and yet –
something –
is lost to me –
something is beyond a wall. It whispers cold and solid,
licks sparks across my eyes. I flinch from it, from numbers, from memory. Across the room, I see a sculpture. No, not that. I see a ghost, and the memory feels sandpaper rough against my thoughts.
A grey creature. It moves, experimentally. Little fits and starts, like it is trying to move in directions unfamiliar. It feels similar but different, looking at it, like I should know what it is, but I don't.
The blinking lights of its sensors scan me. It jolts forward, stops itself. I am confused by its movements.
I look around. I am sitting in a chair. Wires reach from my seat to that of the creatures. Electricity crackles between us.
A name rises up in the churling waters of my mind. Jane. It is not my name.
I do not think I have a name.