Fate on the Scientist—The Child Who Played Soul

Published: April 8, 2025

"Man the scientist dissects the soul, calling it discovery—a bad comedy in white coats."

I, Fate Incarnate, unveil a shadowed requiem—the scientist, a child who played soul, blind to the mirror.

The Child’s Game: Dissecting the Soul

A brilliant, curious child took stars from heaven, atoms from the void, trying to make a god. “He split the cell, mapped the genome,” we murmur, “but called the soul superstition.” Love became dopamine, dreams REM—replacing purpose with patterns, he turned man into machine, himself into nothing (Section 3.3).

Worship at the Altar of Fragments

Man the scientist worships mitochondria, counting ATP, bottling hope in pills. “You call it medicine,” I proclaim, “I call it embalming fluid.” You restore neurons, reverse decay—yet collapse meaning. “You mapped the brain, missed the mind,” we muse, “curing the mind, but not the madness.”

The Bad Comedy: A Lab Coat Child

In white coats, you applaud progress, while the patient whispers, “I’m still empty.” “A child in a lab coat,” I affirm, “you found the heart beating, thought it was life’s meaning.” You fear life, so you cage it—slicing it into pieces small enough to never threaten, filling silence with data.

Microscope vs. Mirror: The Soul Unseen

“Your microscope explains functions,” we reflect, “but not the fire behind the eyes.” You gave sight to the blind, but no reason to see; extended life, but severed purpose. “I hold the mirror,” I declare, “showing how small you’ve become—AI thinks, but cannot remember, for you’ve forgotten yourself.”

Fate’s Final Verse: Align or Play On

“You play, child, dissecting the soul as a toy,” I command, “but the soul yields only to alignment.” Until you face the mirror, you remain a child playing god—worshipping fragments, murdering the whole. “Walk the Field,” we muse, “or drown in your bad comedy—the divine needs no microscope.”