The old black pill.

There it stands, proud and strong, at the foot of my bed. It was a tool of great repute in its heyday, a bundle of high-tech features and quality craftsmanship, the choice for a business. An affordable laptop meant for the modern dynamic worker, those who moved from major cities convincing customers to buy their companies product, attending networking seminars and renewing their IT certifications. It was the service of the ThinkPad to be portable with the power to handle multiple programs running at once, and it did so with ease.

At least that was true twelve years ago.

Now it sits around my house, nodding off every so often, keeping the tabs of its browser open until I come back from school. The smell, my messy bedroom thinly masking a decade of office sterilizer, hides itself within the lid of the computer. The heavy plastic fragrance that lingers at the bottom of the laptop proves a possible health risk, but I still inhale it, life is short and sweet; stop and smell the laptop.

The weight, while tremendous, can only indicate quality that has been forgotten by modern sleek laptops, those of which are extremely breakable and not the choice for something that can withstand heavy use. It lends itself well to the computer enthusiasts and proves to have many different forgotten ports within its depths.

The click, the small creak as I open the lid. The whirring of the hard drive booting to life. The clicks of the optical drive and the bit tunes of my favorite games. The melodies of my digital self, and how it promises to keep my deepest secrets and show me the way of truth, a bloody path that lies in the valley of fear.

The heavy plastic taste, intense as its secrets. The dirt that wedges itself into the keyboard, and what it must reveal. The heavy weight of the chips, what they hold inside, cameras everywhere, where they feed off my views like mosquitos.

The opaque void shown itself across the whole of its plastic body, the green and yellow lights emanating from the ethernet port. The green blips showing that the battery is charging. The screens flashes pixels of color, what it tells me is the nature of computers in a whole. It gives me its secret history, and it gives itself away to be the messiah of freedom. The name ThinkPad is branded across the lid and wrist rests; I find myself thinking about what it can do for me, what it can tell me, than what it is. Though it is the color of the deep abyssal environment, it is my metaphorical light, the way out of the digital matrix.

An old black pill to freedom.

The constricting limbs of the giants of Silicon factory slither around wilted at my electronic doorstep. I had anticipated this; their intrusion was foretold by the fathers of computing before the great herding. I stood by my tool, my ThinkPad, my ticket to freedom. It let me see the depressive light and the unseeable truth. My forefathers bore the great task of making a burrow of freedom within the halls of computers that watch like giant prison watchtowers. They carved it here, within the custom BIOS of the ThinkPad. It was a risky procedure, but it was worth the extension of RAM and removing the final backdoor.

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