1:57 AM. I stare blearily at my computer screen, putting the finishing touches on an AP U.S. History essay. My last one earned me a copious amount of red marks, and I felt the need to improve.
2:01 AM. Facebook indicates that I have one notification. I contemplate leaving it, but I convince myself that it would not take long.
2:02 AM. Looking at the notification was a bad idea. It was a video about Yamaha’s new singing robot. As the narrator speaks, the camera zooms into the robot’s face-- her eyes are kindly brown, her hair cropped close to her face in a school-girl fashion. In such proximity, I cannot believe that I am looking at an inorganic being. As she begins to sing, she nods her head, blinking, looking as alive as a child performing for her par`ents. Her voice is rich and cheery; she continually changes her facial features as if she actually feels emotions of the song. For a moment, I imagine she can, but her voice is just as programmed as the rest of her.
2:45 AM. After looking through several videos of humanoid robots, I lay in bed, thinking. Questions run through my mind-- how were their skins constructed? How many muscles did they have, and how were they programmed? Would such robots be available to the market in the near future?
Present. I fell in love with the idea of creating a completely submissive life. The ethical and moral arguments of the issue fascinated me. However, the creation of humanoid robots frustrated me. Because they were so expensive and time-consuming to create, the robots themselves would surely be remembered better than their creators. Robots were to be the next internet-- everyone knows they exist, but few know of the people who toiled to create them. I then thought about the thousands of babies born and the thousands of people who die every day, faceless, meaningless in their anonymity. We were all made to be remembered. To die without the approval of a memory was to have lived a life devoid of purpose. I vowed to never be forgotten.