Out of Range

Dear Sir,

I can imagine the look on your face. In fact I can almost see you walking towards your door reading this while holding something else that might have arrived in the mail. Like your utility bill or something from the tax people or your telephone people or the internet and television guys. It must have been a while since you saw your name written by hand. And I don’t think you recognise my handwriting. As long as I stayed there with you, all the writing that I’ve done had been by punching keys on your computer. I haven’t punched any keys since then.

I don’t know if you expect me to apologize for the manner in which I left. I do not feel sorry. I know that you have missed me. But I still don’t feel sorry. You must have been shocked the day I left, by what you saw when you got back in the evening. You must have dropped down and cried. I used to try not to think of all that. But now… it makes no difference.

I’m not writing this to tell you why I left. Both of us know it well. I’m writing this to tell you what happened of me. To show you what a man can will to do. What a man can afford to live without.

This place I live in is quite far from the nearest town. I don’t quite remember how far it is. I’ve been there only once. I built this house all by myself. Remember how I always wanted to do that? It isn’t quite complete. I think I can fix it before winter. It is in the midst of some fields. I don’t grow anything here now. I don’t intend to. They tell me that sunflowers would fetch nice money. That’s partly the reason why I don’t intend to.

I’m sure you remember the days when you taught me to use the computer. I’m sure you remember how good I was at it. And I’m sure you remember how I got hooked to the internet. I sometimes have trouble believing that was me. I had to check my mail before my morning cup of tea. I would rather blog than talk to you. I would rather ramble through the internet than take a refreshing nap. I wasn’t me.

And Sir, you told me that it was the birth of a new level of consciousness. You told me that the internet was the earth becoming self aware. You likened me to a neuron in my brain. You said that it was not the neurons themselves but their collective behaviour that made them conscious. You said that the internet had to happen sooner or later. You said that if not for computers there would have been something else. You said that man would sync with man in ways unfathomable to one human brain. You said that people would stop thinking for themselves. You said that collective behaviour was an emergent phenomenon. You said that rise in complexity was at the heart of evolution. You said that we all would become one. One mind under one world government living one life. And I know you believed that. I’m afraid you were right. I realised it too. I would still not have left if it was not for the RFID.

I need to finish writing this before it gets too dark. That’s because I don’t have electricity here. No telephones, no computers and internet and no mail boxes. I don’t get utility bills. I don’t have a house number. That’s because there are no houses here. The fields are all mine. I have no papers to prove it. But they are all mine.

I wonder what you thought of me when you came home that evening. It was my fault. When you told me about the RFID, I thought it would be a nice thing. You said that they would embed this small electronic device in my arm and I would not have to carry any identification documents any where. I could pass through security at the airport without flashing my passport. I could get on buses without flashing my season pass. It all looked so nice. I should have asked you. I should have asked you if they could find out where I was with that thing. No. YOU should have told me. You should have told me that if I decided to drive off to the park one day, their computers would sense the anomaly. You should have told me that I could be tracked by their computers. You should have told me that their computers would know what was normal for me to do and what wasn’t. You did not. You said it was necessary. You said it was for my own good. You said that everyone needed it for their own good. You chose it for yourself. But I care about my freedom. I wouldn’t have chosen it for me. If it wasn’t YOU giving me the half truth.

I know. You probably think that it was stupid of me to have ripped off my left arm that day. I wonder what crossed your mind when you first saw it lying on the floor. I wanted to leave a note. Then I decided it wasn’t necessary. I could have pryed the little thing out of my arm with a knife. But I didn’t know where exactly it was. They did not tell me where they put it. They did not even leave a scar. I don’t care anymore. I had to lose my arm to get rid of the goddamned thing. Atleast, I have something you don’t. Freedom.

In case you are wondering, I run a small place here. I haven’t named it yet. I thought of naming it Out of Range. But it was all too obvious. This thing is attached to my house. I sell some home made food. But that’s not what they come for here. They do not drive all the way for the home made food. They all come to get out of range. They get something here that expensive restaurants deprive them of. There is no wi-fi here. They cannot check their mails. No mobile network covers this place. They do not get alerts on their blackberries. They cannot charge their iphones here. And they all look relieved. Young couples come with their kids. When it gets dark they try to find the constellations. Some kids play with the candles. Others come with friends. They talk for long hours. I don’t charge them for that. Sometimes we play games. But mostly we are happy just being there. Old men love it. They hate the food. But they come back for it.

No one has ever asked me about my arm yet. Some people smile knowingly. I don’t know how many of the people who come here have those things in their arms. I don’t know if they are being surveyed from the skies. This is as far as I can get. This is as much as I can hide. I don’t know how long this will go. I don’t know for how long I can stay unplugged. One day this place might no longer be out of range. One day they might put that thing back in me. Until then, I’d live my free life. I’d be all human.

Take care.