A Psalm for the Wild-Built (Monk & Robot, #1)

by Becky Chambers

But there was a gravity to leaving a place for good, a deep sense of seismic change.

Ms. Jules’s curls retained their frizz, but as she took the mug, something in her face started to let go, as if her features were held in place by strings that had been waiting months to loosen.

The mat was soon full of people. Pleasant chatter naturally drifted along here and there, but most folks kept to themselves. Some read books on their computers. Some slept. A few cried, which was normal. Their fellow tea-drinkers offered shoulders for this; Dex provided handkerchiefs and refills as needed.

That should’ve been enough. That should’ve been more than enough. And yet, if they were completely honest, the thing they had come to look forward to most was not the smiles nor the gifts nor the sense of work done well, but the part that came after all of that. The part when they returned to their wagon, shut themself inside, and spent a few precious, shapeless hours entirely alone. Why wasn’t it enough?

The wilderness was not known for letting the foolish return.

“And machines only work because of numbers and logic.” “That’s how we function, not how we perceive.”

“I am made of metal and numbers; you are made of water and genes. But we are each something more than that. And we can’t define what that something more is simply by our raw components.

“I appreciate the intent. I really do. But if you don’t want to infringe upon my agency, let me have agency.

Everybody thinks they’re the exception to the rule, and that’s exactly where the trouble starts. One person can do a lot of damage.”

Walking through uncut wilderness was another matter entirely, and Dex felt something primal awaken in them, a laser-focused state of mind they hadn’t known they possessed. There was no room for wandering fancies.

“Remnants are powerful things. Hard to ignore.

“I don’t know!” Dex cried. They beat the mud once with their hands, frustrated, furious, crying full-bodied now. They looked at Mosscap, angry and raw. Mosscap’s hand remained outstretched. “Come on,” it said. Its voice was easy, steady, used to sharing space with wolves and bears and small, frightened things.

We made a good place, struck a good balance. And yet every fucking day in the City, I woke up hollow, and … and just … tired, y’know? So, I did something else instead. I packed up everything, and I learned a brand-new thing from scratch, and gods, I worked hard for it. I worked really hard. I thought, if I can just do that, if I can do it well, I’ll feel okay. And guess what? I do do it well. I’m good at what I do. I make people happy. I make people feel better. And yet I still wake up tired, like … like something’s missing. I tried talking to friends, and family, and nobody got it, so I stopped bringing it up, and then I just stopped talking to them altogether, because I couldn’t explain, and I was tired of pretending like everything was fine. I went to doctors, to make sure I wasn’t sick and that my head was okay. I read books and monastic texts and everything I could find. I threw myself into my work, I went to all the places that used to inspire me, I listened to music and looked at art, I exercised and had sex and got plenty of sleep and ate my vegetables, and still. Still. Something is missing. Something is off. So, how fucking spoiled am I, then? How fucking broken? What is wrong with me that I can have everything I could ever want and have ever asked for and still wake up in the morning feeling like every day is a slog?”

It was the first idea in forever that made me feel excited. Made me feel awake. And I’ve been so desperate for that feeling, so desperate to just enjoy the world again,

There had been those who had seen the writing on the wall, who had made places such as this to serve as example of what could be. But these were merely islands in a toxic sea. The good intentions of a few individuals had not been enough, could never have been enough to upend a paradigm entirely. What the world had needed, in the end, was to change everything.

and the monk who came over to us—she was so cool. She had icons tattooed all over her arms, and she was wearing plants—like little sprouts and moss balls set in brooches and earrings and things, and tiny strands of solar lights woven though her hair.

Every person I talk to, I care. It’s not bullshit. I may say the same things over and over again, but that’s only because there are only so many words that exist. If I offer to hug somebody, it’s because I want to hug them. If I cry with them, it’s real. It’s not an act. And I know it matters to them, because I feel their hugs and tears, too. I believe the things they say to me.

“What am I supposed to do, if not this? What am I, if not this?”

We have realized our purpose, and we do not want it,

“Do you not find consciousness alone to be the most exhilarating thing?