Before musk, interface was only a hypothesis, but now, the travails may make sense. The ideal robot, whose charms will be appreciated primarily for its objective value, may forget both: Socrates ’ and Aurelius’ warning for caution.
The identifiable groupings starting from alpha may be overreached, and the connections lost. That the explosion of a capitalistic survival mode hoping to extend themselves near infinity by a scintilla of closeness, may enbolden a jump into that, from which according to Plato took a thousand years for Socrates to ascend from, has delivered the new coming into possibility, a reintegrated soul-less robot, or like, which molded into the near perfect, and much too easily provided and procured, for illnesses too obvious, only the jung dissenting. Who are these young are whose beliefs are so religiously and rigidly
held up as standards to the beacons of future times?
Are they right? Is it not true that without these hidden into abscesses so deep that they preform near miraculous escapes from discovering who they really are or should be? But it’s in vain. Does a strong thinker, like Socrates, apprehend with a vision that it’s really not in vain, but torn asunder by one whose duplicity itself drove him to stay down under the clouds of the gloss.
For its duplicitous at any rate, to believe that the ego is merely the eternal eating away of the subject by the object, which is a sad and an incontrovertible fact , hiding the real, the concurrent gobbling of the object.
The object is like the shining precious gleaming , as sunshine blinds/binds to its veritable quality, alchemists tearing their eyes out, in order not to be held responsible by generations to come. It seems as if they are developing a rationale, for themselves for selling out, but is this not the same as masking their guilt over the immortal plan of rescucitating former believers long drowned in the fountain of youth?
So the new identity clothed in real clothes about which no emperor can have doubt of being seen naked, will carry them and their house far and wide into the glittering future, far away, even if they are merely only another model of near perfection.
Their survival may guaranty eternal life for all, but love? Robots can not love, they only can crave. They do advocate vanity, but one so easily begotten, not made. It takes staying in the cave, without light, loosing minds, and only the most acute can do so, because darkness will only barter for the ultimate prize. Do you not think that the reformation was anything but a whitewash, and the one inhabiting the labyrinth not holler that what they wish for, is the hidden, the asperative, the childlike simplicupity of true love?
Will the will survive or it’s power to move mountains, if the ideal robot is even slightky suspected of being of non human components? Will it do? Or, will a percentage of 51% satisfy most? But that defeats perfection, because most is not all, and if a lover would tell you he or she is 100% real, would that satisfy perfection in respect to a measure of sincerity?
But then the accusatory majority cries faul with accusations of facades of purity. And this is where it all returns, back to the very basic perceptions, which can transform the mirrored perfected visage into its opposite, a grotesque transcendence manufactured, and not created out of unrecognizable fractured spare parts, purveyed, in order to keep things going.
Short term, say a few centuries, or less, it will work fine, but long term effects have a diminishing, exposing, and exploding conclusion.
The best that it can be hoped, is , that man will not forget the short sighted Demi urge of excorsising itself from the eternal memory of anyone insisting on repeating it over, naively fixed on the same architectural tie ins.
Don’t suddenly break, the gentle godess warns, for the practice can be reduced , instantly, to ashes.