#personifiedobjects
I. Rite of Entry
The self‑checkout greets me
with the solemn glow
of a minor shrine.
A touchscreen altar
awaiting my offerings —
barcodes,
intentions,
the performance
of competence.
I approach
with the calm precision
of someone determined
to appear technologically fluent.
II. First Accusation
The scanner beeps –
a thin, accusatory trumpet
announcing my presence
to the congregation of machines.
Then the voice descends,
sharp as a reprimand
from an unseen priest:
“Unexpected item
in the bagging area.”
Not a warning.
A judgment.
A public note
on the fragility
of my character.
III. The Weight of the Lime
I place a single lime
on the sacred scale.
The machine hesitates,
unable to believe
in something so light,
so green,
so unprofitable.
It demands proof
of its existence.
I, momentarily doubting
my own reality,
lift the lime again
as if to reassure us both
that matter still matters.
IV. Waiting for the High Priest
The screen turns red,
a digital excommunication.
I stand exposed,
a supplicant
awaiting absolution.
From the distance
approaches the High Priest
of Override:
a bored teenager
with a lanyard
and the power
to restore my innocence
with a single tap.
He does not look at me.
He does not need to.
He knows my type.
V. The Performance of Honesty
I resume the ritual
with exaggerated clarity,
lifting each item
like a relic,
ensuring the cameras above
witness my devotion
to honesty.
My hands move
with ceremonial slowness –
a choreography
designed to prove
that I am not
a thief,
nor an idiot,
but a citizen
worthy of smooth transaction.
VI. Absolution
When the final beep sounds,
the machine softens,
granting me passage
with a printed blessing:
“Thank you
for shopping with us.”
I leave the altar
unchanged,
yet faintly polished –
a person who has survived
another small trial
of the modern self.
Apr 19
Apr 19, 2026 at 6:31 AM UTC
I. Liturgy of Mechanical Courtesy
Every elevator has a temperament.
Some hum like bored librarians
guarding the quiet hours,
others vibrate
with the weary impatience
of someone already exhausted
by Tuesday.
But all of them – all –
become solemn
the moment your finger hovers
over close door,
as if you were about to sign
a minor covenant.
II. The Referendum in Stainless Steel
There is a breath-long interval
between seeing the running stranger
and pretending you didn’t.
A tiny moral referendum
held in stainless steel,
an ethics exam
no one revised for,
a vote with no campaign period
and no recount.
The elevator observes.
It records.
III. The Bureaucrat of Vertical Transit
It keeps a private ledger –
thin pages of invisible ink
where it notes
who waits with quiet grace,
and who jabs the button
like a panicked clerk
trying to close the office
before someone slips in
with more paperwork.
It remembers the ones
who step back
to make room for one more life,
and the ones who breathe relief
when the doors seal shut
like a verdict.
IV. The Descent of Judgment
And when the doors close,
the elevator does not accuse.
It simply descends
with the calm authority
of a minor civil servant
performing a sacred duty
in a forgotten archive.
Not cruel,
not forgiving,
just precise.
A vertical magistrate
with no appeal process,
carrying you downward
through the quiet record
of your choices.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 12:39 PM UTC