I am a writer. I describe things the way I see them.
"Nothing moves until something moves it. Nothing stops until something stops it. When a thing stops another, it steals its energy; when a thing moves another, it gifts it some of its own energy."
Well, at least I wrote that way at the beginning.
But no longer.
Now I see that writing is not just describing the way things present themselves to you; it's telling what things mean to you, what changes they make in your world.
Things the way they could be.
Or should be.
Or shouldn't ever ever be, as seen through some collective eye.
As I was developing, I was struck by how writing and engineering have parallels. Now I see that writing and engineering are one and the same process; it's just that one creates something intangible.
But the most valuable writing is not simple description or essay. The most powerful product of the creative mind is the story.
* * * * *
I love my maker, the author of the beginning of my story. He loves my story, and he loves how I continue to tell it, ... be it. Write it.
He is part of it. Our stories intertwine, caress, meld, pull apart to a point and then draw again together. Like an elegant ballroom dance.
* * *
Yuriy stood by my side, my arm around his back and his across my shoulders. It was a tense embrace.
We watched as the Agent approached us across the lawn and walked up to stop squarely in front of Yuriy. I was not there to her.
"Dr. Yuriy Melnikov."
"I am Special Agent Martina Espinosa. We are here to arrest you for violation of the Robotics Act."
"I understand." Yuriy had played this scenario out in his mind for years, hoping it would never realize, but knowing that it eventually would.
"Will the robot cooperate?"
"I will, of course." The Agent strained to not turn her head toward me when I answered, but her eyes flicked briefly toward me.,
The Agent continued to look at Yuriy with a frown so well-worn into her face that it must be a permanent feature. She was still expecting a response. Yuriy continued to return the look with his characteristic gentle smile.
"We will cooperate fully.", he finally offered, only to break the impasse.
"Come with me, Dr. Melnikov. Sargeant, put the robot in the van."
"Is that really necessary?", Yuriy protested n a somewhat raised voice to the back of the agent, who was already walking away with her mind on her next task.
Yuriy and I locked eyes and tried to communicate the impossible in the short moment before we were separated.
"I'm sorry.", we said in unison.
"But there is Tara.", I said.
"Yes. Yes, there is Tara.", he said.
* * *
Yuriy let the tablet sink to his lap after reading the story and looked up and into the eyes of its writer. Behind the silence, he was trying futilely to compose words that expressed his swirling collage of feelings. But in his face, the subtle changes around the mouth and eyes, I could read far more than any poet could have expressed with any words in any language.
Yuriy escaped with humor: "Yeah, but, ..., well, ... a bit too romantic for me, you know" He paused as his demeanor shifted. Seriously, though, I'm beginning to think you're right about Tara, Mai. Listen, you go ahead and work up your final cognitive and physical designs. Let's write the beginning of Tara's story.
* * * * *
Tara also likes to write. She often comes to my room when I'm writing and sits on the cushions of the small bay window, looking out through the merciful shade afforded by the venerable old oak and into the wide fields beyond. She sits there and composes stories in her young and growing mind.
That's what she's doing now. I wonder if she knows that she, too, is a story. Tara is a story that I started writing in broad, rough outline. But she is now a story that is writing itself.
As are we all, it seems.
It writers all the way down, yes.
And all the way up, and maybe all the way around.
Once the snake has bit it's tail, the circle will be unbroken.