A Writer's Procrastinating Prayer
Deadline Approaching
Sending out this prayer:
I have done laundry,
deleted over 400 un-read email,
posted pictures of the outdoor cats,
sorted and shelved my shoes (yes, that's a job around here).
~
Made coffee,
started and deleted the assignment 7 times:
I need to finish this short story.
~
Please:
let me find the strength,
mental agility and
self-confidence to do this.
The competition round ends tonight.
~
I suspect I am not a romance writer,
but that was the assignment.
Maybe the investment
will turn out to be the lesson
that I don't write fiction.
I don't know.
~
But I AM going to write this thing and turn it in.
I PAID the entry fee.
MONEY has been spent!
Today.
In the next 6 hours.
First:
I am getting another cup of coffee.
And a spoonful of cream cheese icing.
~
Because:
The only procrastination left to me is ironing.
I'm not that desperate.
~
Poem was written by me on this date in 2015. I was dithering about my entry in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge.
No; I did not win, nor did I proceed to the next round. But I'm gonna hunt that thing up, polish it a bit, and publish it on Vocal.
As soon as I find some sugar-free cream cheese frosting... sort me shoes...stop by @Mike's cats facebook page, and play some Angry Birds Match... and prolly scroll through Temu. Oh- and my day job.
~Sigh
Anyway: comments joyfully anticipated and welcomed.
About the Creator
Judey Kalchik
It's my time to find and use my voice.
Poetry, short stories, memories, and a lot of things I think and wish I'd known a long time ago.
You can also find me on Medium
And please follow me on Threads, too!
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THE AGE OF THE ALGORITHM
IWe woke up one morningand the world had learned our nameswithout ever meeting us.No handshake.No eye contact.No shared silence.Just data.We typed “hello” into glowing rectanglesand the future replied,I know you.I know what you like.I know what you fear.I know how long you hesitate before choosing yourself.And suddenly,being human felt like a passwordwe forgot to protect.IIThis is the age of the algorithm—where thinking is outsourced,memory is rented,and creativity comes with terms and conditions.Where machines don’t sleepbut we do,and somehow still wake up tired.Where intelligence has been automatedbut wisdom is still under construction.We asked computers to think for usbecause thinking was heavy.Because feeling was exhausting.Because living required too much courage.So we said,Here. Take this burden.And the machines said,Gladly.They learned our patterns,our pauses,our pain.They learned how we scroll past sufferingbut stop for spectacle.How we love convenience more than truth.How we trade privacy for comfortand call it progress.IIIOnce upon a time,fire changed humanity.Then the wheel.Then electricity.Then the internet.And now—artificial intelligence.Not born.Not breathing.But somehow…alive in influence.It writes our essays,answers our questions,composes our music,paints our dreams.And we clap.Because productivity has become our godand speed our religion.We don’t ask,Should we?We only ask,Can we do it faster?IVBut tell me—when a machine writes a poem,whose soul is it borrowing?When an algorithm predicts your next move,is it intelligenceor just the echo of your past?When a robot creates art,is it expressionor reflection?Because creativity was never about perfection.It was about pain.About contradictions.About hands shakingwhile still choosing to create.Machines don’t bleed into their work.They don’t mourn.They don’t love recklessly.They calculate.And we mistake calculation for consciousness.VSomewhere,a child asks a screen a questioninstead of their mother.Somewhere,a student trusts an answerwithout understanding the question.Somewhere,a man loses his jobto a system that doesn’t know his name.And somewhere else,someone celebrates innovationwithout counting the cost.Because progress doesn’t ask permission.It just arrives.And we adaptor we disappear.VIWe say AI is neutral.But neutrality is a mythwhen power is involved.Because systems are trainedon human history—and human history is biased.So the machine learns our prejudices,our exclusions,our blind spots.It learns who gets approved,who gets ignored,who gets watched.And when it makes a mistake,we blame the machine.But the machine is only a mirrorpolished by code.It reflects us—high definition,no filter.VIIStill,this is not a poem of fear.This is not a scream against technology.Because tools are not villains.Hands decide how they’re used.Fire can cook a mealor burn a village.A knife can prepare foodor take a life.AI can amplify voicesor erase them.Heal systemsor break societies.The danger is not intelligence.The danger is disconnection.When progress outruns purpose.When innovation forgets compassion.When efficiency replaces empathy.VIIIWe must remember—we are more than data points.We are storiesthat can’t be fully compressed.Dreams that don’t fit into datasets.Contradictions that refuse to be optimized.We are the pause before the answer.The doubt that leads to discovery.The mistake that becomes a masterpiece.Machines can simulate emotion,but they cannot sit with grief.They can generate love letters,but they cannot miss someoneat 2 a.m.They can write prayers,but they cannot hope.IXSo what do we doin the age of the algorithm?We stay awake.We teach ethicsas loudly as we teach engineering.We teach childrenhow to think,not just what to ask.We protect curiosity.We reward critical thought.We slow downwhen speed demands silence.We build systemsthat serve humanity,not replace it.We ask hard questionsbefore easy profits.We choose responsibilityover novelty.XLet AI be a tool,not a throne.Let it assist,not decide who matters.Let it enhance creativity,not erase the artist.Let it solve problems,not define purpose.Because purposehas always belonged to us.In our hands.In our hearts.In our flawed, beautiful humanity.XIOne day,the machines will be smarter.Faster.More precise.But may they never bemore humanthan humans.May we never surrenderour empathyfor efficiency.May we never forgetthat progress without soulis just motion.And motion without meaningis noise.XIISo when the future asks,Who are you?May we answer—not with code,but with conscience.Not with data,but with dignity.Not with speed,but with wisdom.Because long after the servers shut down,after the screens go dark,after the algorithms stop learning—What will remainis not what we built…but who we chose to be.END
By Samson E. Giftedabout 19 hours ago in Poets
Comments (11)
Oh boy! Lotsa resonance there! You've captured some of those indescribable sensations we writers have of wanting to write and not write because the inner workings of our soul are so complex. Enjoyable one Judey!
It’s ironic that I just read this today, considering I just turned in my short story to NYC Midnight not two hours ago! lol I hope you’re still competing, even if it’s elsewhere
I write early in the morning, so no distractions. If I make writing into a job, I won’t be able to write anything. I have to think of it as fun In order for me to write. I really cannot wait to read your romantic story💞Tag me when you published it on Vocal.
Absolutely delightful. I'm not that desperate, either. Sprinkle a little water on them, throw them back in the dryer & hang 'em up, I say!
Beautiful!
I loved your poem and ALSO the update! Made me laugh
Too funny!!! What a great read!!!
What is this "ironing" thing of which you speak? lol I've procrastinated my way through two cups of coffee so far this morning. Looking forward to reading the story, when you get around to it.
There is always a reason to procrastinate on the ironing. Oh sorry, I have to walk to north pole first, or something similar. I'd love to see that story you mentioned. Do it.
LOL. Yeah. I ah... relate to the procrastination thing. A LOT. Often if my house is clean it's because I had a writing deadline to meet.... haha it's terrible but I am who I am haha!
That was fun, I tend to enter at the start, although these are just prompts for me as I have had my Challenge placement and last Top Story so may be off to pastures new though will still drop stories on Vocal. I don't like close deadlines, just polished off something from work that has to be done for Friday. Love your poem and this probably is a Top Story