My other roommate is a computer

We were born flesh and bone, but we've been converted to imperfect arrangements of ones and zeroes. Chew on that for a second. What does that say to you? Initially, it lends me the notion of transformation. Becoming something other than human. A conversion from an organic and perishable mode of existence into a quantifiable, everlasting ghost. Replacing transience with immortality. A transformation initiated as soon as an infant takes its first gasp of warm air, as quick as you hear the click-clack-click's of a computer keyboard, and almost as inescapable and inevitable as death itself, almost every woman, man, and child is incorporated into it. This will make our lives more comfortable and manageable. Work loads will dwindle down to a clean desk in a flash, communication will be so simple and cheap there won't be an excuse to lose touch, and with a few clicks of a button one can be here and be there, simultaneously. The cities, mountains and plains will dance at night with twinkles and blinks, emblazoning our crest in the earth, staking our claim here, and as a reminder to ourselves of our conquest over our discontent. It's a beautiful marvel that we are able to make information, so quick, so efficient, so accessible, but this same victory gives rise to more questions. Maybe even second guess our innovations. Perhaps later down the road we find ourselves asking, 'How do we go back?'
Imperfect is a word that looms over any and all things we've created. Machines work perfectly, until friction rubs its gritty hands on moving parts. Computers work perfectly, until the fan fails and chars the motherboard, or impurities in the circuit materials lend to failure. (I gotta leave from work but ill write some more tomorrow)