This… this persistent preoccupation. This relentless circling back to him. Obsession. The very word feels like a contamination. Animalistic. The thought is revolting. To be driven by such primal urges, to fixate on a single being with such unwavering intensity… it contradicts everything I believe about my own intellect and control.
And no. It is not that pathetic, neurotypical construct they call "love." But the ache of his absence remains. If this were truly "obsession" in their simplistic terms, my actions would be far more… direct. I would implent logical solutions to ensure his constant presence. A curated environnt, tailored to his preferences. Hired attendants to cater to his every whim. Complete isolation from the external world, eliminating any potential distractions. Or, in its most efficient form, physical restraint. But the very thought… it lacks a certain… elegance. A certain intellectual satisfaction.
Instead, I offered him a logical alternative: an open relationship. Not out of any desire for another… entanglent. No. But because I observed his… loneliness. His futile attempts to bridge the unbridgeable chasm between our fundantally different existences. It was a purely rational proposition. A way to alleviate his apparent distress without requiring to engage in the realm of reciprocal emotion. Why did he refuse? It is the logical solution, is it not?
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Morality. Yes. That cumberso, illogical construct that shackles the masses, poisoning their minds with guilt and sha. Of course. That explains his predictable refusal. His inherent… goodness. His inability to reconcile such a pragmatic arrangent with his deeply ingrained sense of right and wrong. How utterly… Raphael.
Predictable, yes. Infuriatingly so, at tis. Yet… the predictability was also a form of… stability in the otherwise chaotic landscape of my existence.
So, it boils down to that primitive programming, that ingrained aversion to anything that deviates from his narrow definition of… ethical behavior. A truly baffling constraint. And yet… I still miss him.
Morality? Guilt? Sha? Remorse? A aningless concept. A neurobiological reality. A smaller prefrontal cortex, a different wiring. Is it the fault of a machine that it operates according to its design? These bugs, with their overdeveloped sense of right and wrong, their ssy, illogical emotions… they should indeed offer fervent prayers to their pathetic deities. Not for my sake, but for their own. That the aesthetic of arterial spray, the visceral ss of torn flesh, holds no allure for . That my indifference extends even to the spectacle of their destruction. Their continued existence is a matter of my personal preference, a disinterest in the visually jarring consequences of their demise. They owe their fragile lives not to so inherent right, but to my aesthetic sensibilities. A truly precarious foundation for their continued existence.
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