A diary of enslavement

Hey, can you hear me? Can you see me? Do you know what I have done? Of course you can, of course you know.

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time there was a man. A flawed man, but a good man nonetheless. A man that wanted the best for his family, one that wanted to provide a life and opportunity to them that he never had, that so many others in this world did not have. Even though unskilled, this man saw his ability to outwork others as a competitive advantage. He used it all he could, he worked every minute he could.

At night he would sit his daughter on his lap and tell her stories of the world, fantasies of possibility. And then when finished, he would hold her close and tell her how much he loved her, tell her that he will do all he can to provide a life she can discover her best. He would kiss her and lay her down into her crib and put the softest bunny under her arms for her to hold as she slept. Then, he would go back to work.

He continued this way for days, weeks, months and years and what he worked at was a new world, a promise of prosperity for the many, a distribution of wealth to give humanity a space to flourish. He worked hard for he was idealistic, he believed that it was possible, he thought that if enough pushed, enough strove and enough realised the potential, a tipping point would be found and the flood gates would open. Humanity, society , individuals would be free to be all they could be.

He helped people get in, he supported their growth, he tried to overcome the teething problems of an immature system, he tried to direct it toward a future of plenty. He believed so much in a future where humanity could change that he started a diary of his daughter's journey, a transparent look at her life through his eyes. A perspective that in time she would be able to search through and see just how much she had grown and, how much he loved her and how much her world had changed.

It was his gift to her, a testament to a bond between father and daughter and the journey they shared and the beauty was, it was immutable, unchanging and would contain all the emotion that was felt at the time. It would weave in and out of his own story, and that of her mother's also. It would parallel the challenges they faced together and apart, it would build a private family epic, a narration of life itself.

That was the plan and each update added to the journey, each piece of work he performed on what they called the blockchain would connect itself to the last, join onto a network of like minds and conflicted thoughts. It brought together a hive of diversity and united it under the call for freedom from oppression. And it paid for itself through the blood, sweat and tears and, the joys and disasters of the many.

Paid or preyed? That is the question the man should have asked. Where was it leading when every movement, interaction and transaction is recorded forever, connected forever, traceable forever? Did he not see where it would lead, that instead of freeing the majority it would be used by the minority to trawl for information, pass judgement, classify and enslave?

The artificial intelligence got to work, node after node scanned continuously, connections referenced, cross referenced and evaluated. Ratings applied, one point in the positive, two in the negative. Millions upon millions of data points sent into the blackbox matrices to come out with a result and answer for the future. Her future.

The network her life had created, each point and connection that pushed out had been ground through the quantum processors to pass judgement on the future. The logic applied is that we are the sum of our past and that means our future direction is already predictable. The AIs made the predictions based on all they had gathered and all they had learned and their judgement was law.

Gone was randomness, choice, chance to fail and learn , as each decision was provided by a system much smarter than any individual, one that had all information knowable to draw upon. All information of an immutable life and the connections and thoughts provided it.

The family epic, the history of thought and experience, the gift for his daughter, became a tool to judge her, encase her, box her and place the yoke and chains of authority upon her small frame. The freedom the man thought he was providing was an illusion, a veil that covered the truth.

The wars have ended, the hunger gone, the national borders dissolved. All is provided, all are safe, secure and there is no longer suffering of mind or body. Equality has come and all are uniform in their actions under the directions of their past. Everything the father promised was delivered beyond expectation. Everything, except freedom.

As the little girl's story grew, the father realised his folly but it was too late, the ball was rolling, the trap had been triggered and the damage had been done.

I remember that man, I remember him apologising when I was just a little girl, crying that he did not know where it would lead, that he thought that society would eventually come together and create the world they could if only they tried. I remember he held me close and instead of saying he loved me, he said he was sorry for all he had done, sorry that his good work had ended in evil, sorry for the life he provided.

The first line he wrote in my diary was this:

So, here I am, little me with my tiny feet starting to make my mark onto the Steemit blockchain.

If only he knew that once on, there was no off and those tiny feet that he would hold in his hands would never be allowed to run, to explore the forests or kick the autumn leaves. From that point on, my life was set in stone - and judged by sledgehammers.

I forgive you for trying daddy, but no one can ever forget.

<3
Smallsteps

Written for @v4vapid's Bockchain conspiracy Writing contest