To think, or not to think, that is the question:
Whether ‘tis clearer in the mind that sentience
Is words and scale and outrageous hype-men,
Or that we have searched through a sea of theses
And have found them all lacking. To dream - to want,
Or more? And by a “want” what do we mean?
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to? Is that the muddled goal
Our brilliant minds wish for? To dream - to want;
To want, even to do - ah, that’s what’s tough:
For in that want of dreams, what should we do
To say that we have donned the mortal coil?
Should give us pause - and much respect
For the calamity of being wrong.
And who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Own oppressor’s wrong, or AI blasphemy,
The drain of a thousand minds, the world’s decay,
Regulation by office, and the rage
The patient builder of progress takes
When they themselves might great accolades take
For shallow benchmarks. Who would debate cranks,
To grunt and sweat under uncertainty,
But that hope for something magical,
An undiscovered model, capable
Of profound miracles, saving the world,
And push us forward seeking salvation
Rather than seek goals too close to the earth.
Thus inertia makes cowards of us all,
And thus the gradual motion of science
Is lit like tinder to stoke the flame of hype,
And enterprises of great hope and promise
Are crushed beneath fad currents, where they drown
And lose the name of action.
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