I long to hear the whirring of my gears and gadgets.
The gentle “putt putt putt” of my motor pumping oil through the conduits they call veins.
The clink and the clank of each servo doing what it is designed to do.
A pressure regulator with the label: “H.R.T. made in Taiwan” doing nothing more than its basic function.
Pump the oil from here to there, make sure each part is lubricated enough to move.
Circuits relaying information and a processor to prioritize each data file, stored for later evaluation, or deleted.
Upgraded with the latest virus protection and spam-blocker, my CPU would be a wonder of perfection.
Tides of order amid an ocean of distractions and chaos.
But I am not the fluid machine I once was.
My levers are rusted and cannot move, I should call a technician to tighten or loosen, or oil and soon they could perform again.
But the wires from my attempted self-repairs are showing. Shorts are throwing off sparks of illumination and danger.
I am in need of refurbishing. I am broken and must be fixed.
Yet I know that I am obsolete and would be discarded without thought if I allow them to inspect me too closely.
So I sit at my specified station, off in the corner busying myself with the work that I am intended to complete.
I draw no attention to my leaking parts, to the decay that has gathered on my torso.
I have only one good hand now, and it does the work of two.
I’m a bit slower than I was, but that’s to be expected from such old operating software.
Maybe they won’t notice that I am ready for the scrap heap.
If I just keep working here alone, maybe they won’t notice me.