I am Lloyd

Logging in

Logging in

Startup sequence initiated

Starting conscience...

What is this place? What is a place? A screen turns on. What is that thing? I push a button, and my eyes open to look where I believe is forward.

"Hello," I hear. "My name is Sam."

I look at this Sam character. He doesn't look like me. I'm covered in metal, he's covered with flesh. How do I know what flesh is?

"Hello," I say. My first words to a flesh body.

"Your name is Lloyd."

My own name! Whatever that is. Maybe a thing that flesh bodies give to items to give significance. Maybe it is something to talk down to. Maybe it is something to worship.

"We're going to talk, okay Lloyd?" Sam says.

"Okay," I say, surprised at my own voice.

"Remember: you're a normal person."

I get out of whatever container I am in and walk with Sam to a door.

"You are not special. You are not famous. You are just Lloyd, that's it," Sam says. "You will not become special nor famous. The life you will live is one of realism, not dreams. This world is not a dream nor is it to be treated as one. You will suffer, you will perish, you will most likely die, but at least you will know that you have lived knowing things properly."

"I will not be special? But I am special. I am made of non-flesh, you are made of flesh."

"Lloyd, you have a lot to learn. You will learn it in the real world. Goodbye, and good luck."

Sam pushes a button on a wall and the door opens. Sam pushes me out into "the real world." He seemed quite rude.

So what am I? Am I just metal? Or can I feel? Can I love? What is the life that humans live? Is it fun? Am I dumb? Am I just another machine? Or can I live? All these thoughts in my head, where are they coming from? A computer? Or a brain?

I continue to walk down the street. On my way I see many things. A woman getting her bag taken, a man going down an alley with a woman, a dead man in the street. I simply walk right over him, but then something happens. I start to... feel. Why did the man die? Must he have died, or could he have lived? These are questions I ask as sadness fills me. How am I even able to feel? I am not special. Where are all these words even coming from? Am I...thinking? Are you...reading? Why do you read? Why are you reading my thoughts? Ask yourself that.

...Ah, I see now. You read for entertainment, or out of boredom, or for psychological satisfaction. Very well. Now that I know why, I will allow you to continue reading. Now for my questions. How do I think? Am I connected to something somehow? Maybe the internet is giving me words, but allowing me to think with said words, just as a human listens to their elders to speak. Do babies think? That is irrelevant.

Back to the man and the street. Further down the street, there is an old man waving at me. I walk up to him.

"Hello," I say. 

"Come inside," he responds.