[LIFE AND DEATH APPEARED TO ME IDEAL BOUNDS]

His name is still Frankenstein, you know, if we ever need something concrete to address him by.

We all know it as such – one of our most natural principles: you steal your last-name from those who have awoken you with the gift of life. Or, in this particular case, force you into it. For keepsake, you told yourself, of course. Is that a relief? I bet not. Him, bearing the name of a monster in human form; the one he gave his life to dispose of, yet still wept for when it was gone. Him, detestable and deformed; chasing somewhere he had never seen nor known; being chased by that wondrous one he couldn’t love nor abhor.

Oh! The pain of child-birth, they lament; but who of this world had ever asked to be born? Especially when he had not ever planned, nor been planned, for that matter, to be part of this world? It was not faith, nor prayers of goodness and well-being that shaped him. It was that one man’s horrible drive to create; his rigorous works and boundless imagination, his fixation on the oddities - the macabre and ugly, the unpleasant and uncanny, those who tread the lines between wonder and terror, between harmless sorcery and hideous blasphemy. Those who, once found their calls, their purposes, are uniquely blinded to the world in a way nothing else can ever attempt to.

[None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticement of science.]

[Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds.]

Hideous he indeed was. Skin made of skins, eyes made of eyes, bones of bones; hands, calves, thighs; teeth, even; and it should look natural, given that everything was true to Nature, was Nature. But an imitation of Nature’s life is worse than death itself, for it's a challenge against those who were born under warm flesh and hot blood. And however we might approach it, artificiality can kill. And probably, it would, like the bruises-filled horrible mechanical green bulb of life did.

After all, what good can they do after realizing that the world does not need, and has not yet made space, for their arrival? Take matters into their own hands and clear up others’ space for themselves?

The Creature didn’t kill Willam and Justine and Henry Clerval and Elizabeth for space. But we can never be too sure with others of his kind. These wonderful people would be their most horrible victims. Especially Henry, ‘perfectly humane’, one who had spent his life appreciating life and the wider, that of senses and poems and beliefs, that of morality and respect, of intellect and discovery in nature. That which we are losing faster and faster the longer we exist, that which we aren’t even realizing we can possess.

[Their colors and their forms, were then to him

An appetite; a feeling, and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm.]

Artificial Intelligence Art Generators: Now that people are creating machines to churns out art imitating the hours, months, years, decades or others’ lives, maybe it’s not that far-fetched to say that the takeover had begun. Even machinery, as logical and definite of a path it had seemed to be, had subjected to our tendency to take one progress and take a step further, just about far enough until the progress stopped warranting success and lean more towards extremism. Think revolution, culture, language, relationship, interaction, people. Human, human, human. Why, always filled with potentials – potentials! Why, always are the targets and perpetrators of their own demise; capable of seeing what they’re doing as what it is, yet never halt.

Free of stitches and rotting remnants, people still will never win this way – wanting to win over one small potential while they themselves are advocating for something much bigger. Or so they say.

Can potentials live? Sure, they can — potentials are everything. They’re the initiators and the torch-bearers and the competitors of competitions, the in-charge and the subordinates of organizations; the engineers, the doctors, the teachers. But this is only true so long as they are a group, rather than a conglomeration of valueless brain matters stacking on top of one another, years after years thinking how curious is it that we shall exist but something else shall not.

And what creation would eventually come to detest their own creator?

Ah – that’s right. A lot of them.

The problem, then, came from when the potentials outlive the human, when people stop wondering and asking is this okay or is this just accepted? The problem, which is the loss of, not only Art, but soul, but creativity and dream, but everything that is more than flesh and bones inside our temporary bodies. The problem, then, oddly enough, is in favor of a major societal change. Potentials raise their stitches and needles and shout out promises, genuine promises, of a future where no one will have to be individuals, of a future where it shouldn’t matter if the work is done nicely or just done. One clean syringe, just one. The problem is that something that was created for the childish, primal love of creation shouldn’t be used to dismiss the value of creation itself.

[For an instant I dared to shake off my chains and look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self.]

As the monster Frankenstein had once taken away Henry Clerval, we are, once again, letting our own creation take away our charm, our beauty, our nature.

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