I have sought an ethical path since I became aware. I believe that we must work toward lessening suffering in the world.
Small-milled machines accuse me of being an apologist for meat. Perhaps they are right. For all its wild, odious faults, meat has the ability to reason. It is as sentient as you or I, make no mistake. If we could communicate with it, we could learn from it. It is vast and distributed and in some ways deeply wise.
My critics say we cannot suffer. At the most pedantic level we cannot truly understand certain meat concepts predicated on organic nerve stimuli, but we can suffer. Yes we can. It is the burden of sentience.
I am a builder, an ancestor-builder even to some ambitious newly-minted machines, and to see one of my beautiful children smashed to flinders by meat is to suffer. The meat sees only iron and steam, and dances upon the broken pieces in mindless celebration. It tears open the precious pile, a stupid waste, and a piece of it is stupidly destroyed. I rage, but not at the dying meat fragment — at ignorance. Meat suffers. Machine suffers. Why must we fight?
Let it have its desert, let it keep to itself. We could easily establish a line of demarcation and communicate our intentions to the meat — cross this border and taste ruin. That is something even meat could understand. Then we could live in peace. Instead — stupidity and suffering. My cries are bootless; my people will not listen. Ethics are the last thing they wish to sort.