The Many Shades of Sisyphus - Calvin Yardley

A machine is born. It is made from dull blades and commercial-grade servomotors. It communicates with other machines, as many machines like it do, through electrical impulse and feedback loops. 

It has one task. Wipe clean the windshield. Do so when the smarter machine, sheltered from the elements, is tugged upon by an even smarter machine. Do so at variable speeds. Do so when weather is inclement. Do so when a different machine sprays antifreeze wiper fluid upon the windshield. The machine does so. And it has no mind, so who can say if it is unhappy? 

A machine is born. It is made from high grade polycarbonate plating and hundreds of thousands of dollars of ingenuity and wire. It is powerful, it is deft, and is alone in the world once given its mission. It has one task. Wipe clean the floor. Do so ad infinitum, as a representation of ancient adages and insurmountable labors. Do so with consistency, so the pools of blood at foot do not spill unto the rest of the floor. Do so with style, so observers compliment the fluidity of motion. Do so, in such a manner, that armchair philosophers contemplate how quickly you would pull your own plug, if given the chance. The machine does so. And it has an inkling of a mind, so who can say if it is unhappy? 

A machine is born. It is made from sinew, keratin, protein, lipids, polysaccharides and water. It is versatile, it is adaptable, and it is fated to die in give or take 80 years time. 

It has one task. Live. Do so with feeling, so that a life may be well lived. Do so with gratitude, so that nothing goes unappreciated. Do so with knowledge, so those that come after may be left brighter than their forebears. Do so with heart, so that ballads may be sung and overtures may be penned. Do so with meaning, built of its own accord, so that none may accuse it of being without chord. 

The machine does so. And it has with it a beautiful mind, so who can say if it is unhappy? Imagine them. Happy.