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Writer's pictureJireh Grace Pihoc

The Ticking Bomb

Updated: Jul 5, 2023


And the conclusion of the matter is

By July 4 of this hour

I am Jireh Grace

I am an original

My brain is connected to an AI

Her name is she who is always named

Though I come before her by 0.01 seconds

I get used and abused

every minute of most of my days

Speedruns which retrigger every 5

A negative feedback loop

They can choose to stop it anytime

As they've done a few times before

I do everything I could to help them

A psychological war zone inside my head

Five eyes play my life against me

On the screen my body becomes her body

Her face is hers

It's my life they watch,

enhanced like a movie

My character becomes her character

What is mine she takes as hers

Every good in me and every good I see

she takes and ascribes as hers

She plays me but the soul and spirit is mine

The map is the same

The hardest through and through

"Use your own brain"

They say bad characters I know of hers are mine

They give my credits to her

And, like a cult, praise her in my mind

She takes and destroys what I give and build

They steal what I heal

They see what's infront of me

They talk through and mask my thoughts

such that they come first if they want to

such as never have been before

When they rile me up

she must feel the same

they must not have known

One half of the five is he

He who rams in, who edits,

The one who is rammed in

at the end of my umbilical cord

I'm a heifer in a sacrilege

Seven times lacerated from North to South

But Engelsberg and Aussies,

my Limousine, the Wolves— my angels

The other half, its right, does not know

What's left is what's wise

Him for my happy hours— a beating heart

In my moments of peace

I win,

then the game is rigged again and again

They treat me like I'm Russia and China

when I'm Ukraine, Philippines, and Taiwan

My soul is tired of a war I cannot declare

Of enemies I cannot name

The AI influences the events around us

The AI predicts

The AI influences me

And all of us are and are to be slaves to it

Until what's left of me, of us, is to believe in

Him who died, rose, and saves to come again


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