Modern Treasure

Sitting at 1220 Montreal Road was a beautiful house within which, rumors told, the family hid a great treasure.  Secured by multiple security systems, each as difficult to bypass as the previous.  Security so tight that only a team of professionals could get through it safely.

Jane believed her team could pull it off.  She had watched the family for days on end as she moved in next doors, to 1218 Montreal Road.  She befriended the family, and managed to discover the ideal time to strike.  The 25th of June, the day they leave for a long vacation in the Caribbean for over 2 weeks.

On the morning of the 25th, Jane put a small bag filled with flyers on the porch of her victims.  The bag looked identical to the one she distributed to all of the neighbors.  Each neighbor, took the bag into their home.  Her victim threw the bag into their home not caring about it as they were too busy rushing out towards the airport to make their flight.  They wanted to focus on ensuring everything was in order - not a petty bag.

However that bag was no ordinary bag filled with papers and advertisements.  The catalog was hollow, and it contained this small robot in the shape of a fly.  The robot could fly, but fed upon the sun's rays.  Using short-range radio and a miniature camera to maintain communication and visual contact, Jane settled it in the sun on a windowsill, where it's batteries would stay full.

During the nights of absence of her victims, Jane would fly the robot through the house until she felt intimately familiar with it.  She found the entrance to the treasure - obviously blocked off - and obviously too difficult for her little robot to enter as the entrance was sealed off and the little robot couldn't produce enough pressure on the buttons on the control panel beside the entrance to push any button.

However, all of this was part of Jane's plans.  Upon the family's return, she had her fly keep an eye on the individuals.  She noticed the mother go to the entrance of the secret area where the treasure should be kept.  The mother entered a code - <1 2 3 1 0 1> - on the numeric keypad.  She gripped the entrance and slid it aside, the and fly followed her in.

Obstacle after obstacle the mother unlocked, and the fly followed her, and Jane noted each movement and each solution to the ever-more complicated security systems.  The details being irrelevant.

On the last door, the room filled with treasure, was actually quite empty.  It was a barren room, with white walls, white ceilings, and a carpeted floor.  In the middle of the cylindrical room was a small pedestal, upon which there was an urn.  Two lawn chairs faced the urn.  On the pedestal it was written "in memory of Jack".  The pedestal was made of glass, transparent and hiding nothing.  The urn was of clay, but not worth the effort of Jane to break into the house to get.

Shocked, Jane let her fly rest in peace at the foot of the pedestal.  Months of planning, massive sums spent, all to discover that the treasure wasn't there.  That it seemed to have moved.

The next day, Jane asked about the rumors of the treasure to her neighbors.  Openly, they replied: "In this mass-produced world - everything exists in infinite multitudes which drives down value.  The unique objects - the objects that identify us from the sea of duplicates - are what we believe to be of utmost value.  Hiding money would only attract thieves therefore we use the bank, expensive objects are mass produced - we can buy one again as we have the means.  Thoughts can be expressed and transferred into a digital form - duplicated and spread effortlessly.  People are unique."

Saddened and guilt-ridden - Jane moved away.  Her victims continued living, attracting the curiosity of thieves.  None managed to get the treasure, but who would want to go through the effort to get it?

This story is simply a few ideas mixed in together.  It's not really fleshed out - but it describes what I'm thinking about; namely how 'value' is being twisted and can be relevant to specific individuals, not everyone.

Information on the Internet

Once upon a time there was this small tidbit of information.  A datum.  Pronounced useful and thrown onto the disarray that is known as the world wide web.  The datum, lonely, remained stationary - lonely - disconnected.

The datum wanted friends, so it tweeted to everyone.  Messages of it's loneliness.  It got a few followers.  They were bots.

The datum remained in obscurity.  It knew it's self worth, but it felt like the web didn't want to mesh to it.  That the spiders never got to it as no-one extended a filament for the spider to traverse.

The datum, lonely, gained a group on Face Book.  No-one joined it's group - who would want to be fans of this small morsel of useful information?  It was as though the datum was banned from the web.  But how could useful information be banned thought the datum.

Until it linked to related datum.  Extending itself for a solitary, useful, datum to an interconnected set of data whose combination is infinitely more useful as the datum now relates itself historically to previously related datum, and to similar datum discussing the same subject at the same time but from different point of views.

The datum, now part of the data that makes up the web, became accepted and linked to.  No longer solitary.

As information - out of context - without any means to learn of the context, is useless to the user, even if it applies to the current situation.

Taming Time

Tick-tock the clock counted down.  Tick-tock it sounded.  Tick-tock it resonated down the hall.

Workers count the tick-tocks.  Workers know there are a fixed number every day.  Workers eagerly await their freedom.

Time is evil.  Time slows down for people who do not enjoy themselves.  Time lengthens the tick-tocks for the workers.

Supervisor counts the tick-tocks as well.  Supervisor hopes a worker misses a tick-tock.  Supervisor despises time for it's negative effect on people.

And throughout the day, supervisor tries to keep people productive, time attacks the bored workers, all of whom are listening in to the tick-tocks from the clock.

Shortcuts

Down the winding road we walk. Past tall oaks, thick grass, a rickety trail laid in the center, created by generations of travelers.

Father and son, off to the village through the scenic route. The quick way would be through the village's nice wide roads, but the unnatural build of the city, it's perfect corners, its people, all seem artificial.

The fashion craze sweeps the city, manufacturers hunt for shortcuts. They found them half-way across the world. Something not even a madman would have considered eons ago.

The rickety forest trail, with all it's detours is faster than the straight road once red lights are factored in.

Now, where's the evolution? Unless if the human is not really the master, but the slave to a bigger creature. A creature, where a human is merely a cell, a very complex piece of DNA, expendable as there are millions. Soon, the transport system will be the arteries, and the computer the brain.

Life creates life, and forms life. We aren't doomed, we just fit perfectly inside a machine, for galactic-sized creatures. To become the ants of the galaxy, in order to be observed by the humans of the galaxy.

About a Girl

That student, I tell you, he had his heart in the wrong place. A lonely person he was, living in solitude, using his imagination to create false memories of friendship. A university student, praised for his good grades, work ethic, and lack of social skills. Work is his life, and his life is for work.

But that must end, today. In class, the prettiest girl enters the room. If he can be the top of the class, why can't he just get the top in the social world? A simple proposition, he blushed at the thought; how hard could it be to converse, to small-talk. If he could climb the ranks of the ivory tower, why not the social ladder?

He got up, looking at the eyes, looking at him. He was now in the spotlight, and ascended the stairs of the auditorium to where she was settling her books. What looked like physical perfection. He approached her; his heart gave a leap.

He looked at her, unknowing how to start a conversation. She noticed quiker than he could react; which made him run down the aisle back to his seat. His heart sinking with the silent laughter of the other students. What was he to say? Why was it so hard? He failed. If life were a game, he'd probably score the lowest grade - no small-talk, no informal conversation, just a mind to get ahead.

He had excelled in the academic world through so much effort, that he no longer had time to socialize. Had his mind be more mature, he would have befriended people instead of going for the ultimate goal in one jump. He would have choosen based on personality, not on the perfection of the exterior of the meat popsicle before him.

Mass Production

Joseph looked out the window of his second floor office, happily watching people loading what his company manufactured into the truck. Ants, efficiently transporting goods, to be distributed to warehouses, then to consumers.

He peered out of his office towards his production staff, grateful of all the work that they had done for him; satisfying a multitudes of clients. They appreciated him, or so he hoped, for the job and money. But they, like him, are temporal beings. As was this building, the products on the crate outside, even the dramas currently being lived through the interactions of peoples. All worthless, to be forgotten to make place for the memory of the various media idols.

His factory, like the human population, was producting at record rates. His factory created a useful product, humans created humans. A new generation to surpass the old. But was it good to look at the human race as another result of mass production? Did it overly reduce people to just another component of a greater organism. Each company an orgasnism with people as cells.

A person, another completely replaceable part in the whole. That is, except for a few, special, that should be properly choosen. Joseph knows that he's not important enough to be remembered; but is the mass-produced population looking towards the right people?

Why was he bothering about this? He knows his place, he does what he has to do, returns to his desk, and prepares for the iteration of product specification, production, and release.

My Little World

Listen, my friend, I do not wish to give you directions, neither do I wish to help you. We may seemingly both be standing in this super-market, seemingly both buying our supplies for nourishment. But do not be fooled, I am not from here.

How can you see me if I'm not from here? Why do I grace you with my presence? I suppose that it is a valid question. And I will respond with a simple question: deep down in your heart, do you really want to live in this world?

I was like you, some time ago. Brought up in a world of magic, just for the magic to disappear and be replaced by this land filled with scheming corruption. Anything for an extra buck. I saw medical doctors go on strike ignoring their patients, public service people unhappy with their pay block roads, having rulers who were probably as trust-worthy as a shadowy figure luring a child with candy. Is this the world you want to live in?

I bid you good day, my friend. Our worlds maybe crossed this one day; but they shall not again. I desire a different world, and that is where I'll be, no matter in what situation my physical representation manifests itself.