Photo: Rodrigo Senna, Flickr Creative Commons
I wish I could know what my work computer was thinking as it grinds away at my feet struggling to keep up even with the pace of my typing. It's strange to think that my fingers are actually faster than a computer's thought processes. I'm a quick and nimble typist, but not so fast that even a much older processor couldn't manage my pace.
I'd like to think that my computer is dreamy. It's not overwhelmed by Novell's clumsy code. It's thinking about travelling the world, a sleek Alienware job at its side. It probably thinks a lot about butterflies. Maybe he longs to be able to feel love. He spends his time surfing the net reading about love and longing to be able to feel any emotion at all. My insistent requests for him to do work are a distraction that he begrudgingly attends to, but only after moments of delay that serve as his silent protest.
Of course, I don't believe in any of that. Even my assumptions about its sluggishness are only projections of myself onto the idiot circuits that only do what they are told. The problem is simply the intersection of a lack of elegance in code with the effects of age causing my desktop to stumble through life. It's nice to dream, though.