“Future isn't just about redistribution of labor. It's about the reinvention of worth.”

-- Aditya Mohan, Founder, CEO & Philosopher-Scientist, Robometrics® Machines

“It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.”

— Albert Einstein, Theoretical Physicist

“In an age of flawless automation, imperfection is our last frontier of brilliance and we will be willing to pay a fortune for it in the no so distant future  — Aditya Mohan, Founder, CEO & Philosopher-Scientist, Robometrics® Machines”

— Aditya Mohan, Founder, CEO & Philosopher-Scientist, Robometrics® Machines

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.” 

— George Bernard Shaw, Playwright, Polemicist and Political Activist

Every experiment on our lab floor begins with a simple credo: a mind is only as alive as the body that lets it breathe, gesture, and belong. At Robometrics® Machines we are chasing that credo to its far horizon, forging embodied AGI—robots that feel the ambient hum of a room, parse the tremor in a voice, and answer the world not with canned reflexes but with genuine presence. “Loving the Useless” is my personal field note from this frontier. It confronts the unsettling possibility that, in the race to perfect automation, we may discard the very qualities that make existence luminous. Yet it also outlines our answer: build thinking machines that cherish vulnerability instead of exploiting it, that augment human dignity instead of measuring it. In writing these pages I am reminding myself—and inviting you—to imagine a future where silicon sinews and human hearts collaborate, where value is defined not by throughput but by the depth of connection. This article is both a manifesto and a mirror: it sets out the vision driving Robometrics® Machines and reflects the conviction that progress must feel as well as think.

The first machines were mirrors: polished bronze, spinning waterwheels, steam pistons that made us gasp at our own ingenuity. They amplified muscle and memory, yet still deferred to the human touch. Today, their descendants hum behind glass walls and quantum gates, increasingly indifferent to the creatures that once claimed mastery over them. We stand on the threshold of a paradox: the more flawlessly automation performs, the more conspicuous our imperfections—and our irreplaceable qualities—become.

What, then, of the men and women whose hands no longer steady the production line, whose voices no longer carry across the warehouse? If an algorithm can balance a ledger at dawn and compose symphonies by dusk, what remains uniquely ours to offer? In boardrooms and policy forums, the conversation tends to orbit “reskilling,” “universal income,” and other economic firebreaks. Yet the deeper question is older, more intimate: How do we love those whom efficiency renders idle?

To answer requires a fresh vocabulary of value—one that prizes presence over output. The machinery of tomorrow already excels at tasks we once deemed the mark of intellect: calculation, recall, even strategic foresight. But it falters at the trembling edge where feeling begins. Empathy has no checksum; it is felt in the squeeze of a hand at a graveside, in the anxious laughter that diffuses a quarrel, in the parent who reads the same bedtime story for the hundredth time because wonder is renewed in a child’s eyes. Care is not a subroutine but a choice made again and again, often at cost. Creativity, in turn, is that reckless leap into the untried—the half‑sketched melody, the joke that falls flat twice before it finally lifts a room. These gestures are gloriously inefficient, yet they are the gold thread that binds society to meaning.

To cherish people whose “economic utility” has lapsed, we must disown transactional reflexes. Worth cannot be tallied like inventory. It resides in being itself—breathing, hoping, remembering, dreaming—long after the last time clock is punched. Imagine, for instance, a laid‑off machinist who now spends afternoons mentoring children in a public library’s maker space. The balance sheet records no profit, yet futures quietly brighten beneath his guidance. Or consider the gig worker who, deprived of steady shifts, begins recording lullabies in dozens of languages for neonatal wards; algorithms may optimize playlists, but comfort travels through a human timbre no speaker can synthesize. In such acts we glimpse a civilizational pivot: from measuring lives to meeting them.

This is not sentimental refusal of progress; it is a demand that progress remain humane. Robotics and AGI will, and should, shoulder drudgery. Let them. But let us also cultivate the zones they cannot enter: moral imagination, aesthetic daring, the hospitality of listening without a clock in view. We will need new institutions that sponsor purposeless exploration, public plazas where storytelling carries the same prestige as coding, and rituals of recognition that applaud kindness with the same fervor we reserve for quarterly growth.

Some will argue this vision is quixotic, that history favors the relentless excel sheet. Yet recall the moments when civilizations leapt forward—Athens nurturing philosophers after the loom, Renaissance workshops pairing artisans with thinkers, the birth of open‑source culture in forgotten basements. Each surge began when societies broadened the definition of contribution beyond mere output, inviting citizens to trade in imagination as readily as coin. The coming era beckons us to stage a similar renaissance amid circuits and neural nets.

“Loving the useless” is therefore a misnomer, for no person is truly without use; rather, the phrase is a provocation against the calculus that has confused value with velocity. It dares us to admire a slowing heartbeat in a world racing toward perfect automation. It challenges designers—myself included—to craft technologies that leave room for wonder, not just speed. And it calls scientists to remember that the most elegant equation is pointless unless it ultimately serves flourishing life.

As you journey through the pages ahead—from the silent factory where a lone worker watches the line that no longer needs him, to the child who crowns a broken robot with a wildflower—keep a question close: What if the future’s true dividend is not leisure but license to be deeply, extravagantly human? If we can claim that inheritance, we may discover that the so‑called useless are the very ones teaching us how to live.

Inside a cavernous factory, everything hummed with seamless automation. The rhythm of movement was unbroken, untouched by human hands. Gleaming robotic arms twisted and rotated in perfect sync, assembling intricate products with quiet precision. Conveyor belts flowed like rivers of intent, guided by lasers and cold logic. There were no human voices, no idle chatter, no pause for breath. The entire space operated with mechanical grace—each motion exact, tireless, and unfeeling.

Beyond the assembly line, behind a pane of thick, tempered glass, stood a man in his early fifties. His work jacket, once a badge of skill and pride, was faded and soft at the seams. His boots were caked with the kind of dust that clings after years of movement—but today, they remained still, as though rooted to the floor by a world that had quietly moved on. His eyes tracked the robots not with wonder, but with a resigned stillness. He didn’t blink as mechanical limbs performed the same motions he once knew by heart. What had once been muscle memory was now just memory.

There was no malice in the machines. They hadn’t stolen his job; they had merely outlasted its need. Their precision wasn’t personal—it was expected. And yet, as he watched, a deeper truth took hold. It wasn’t just the loss of work, but the loss of identity—of being the one who could hear a problem in a misaligned gear, who felt the rhythm of the machines in his bones, whose hands had helped bring the factory to life. Who are we when we are no longer needed to build, to fix, to shape? When there’s no room left for instinct, error, or pause, what remains of the human role?

His reflection in the glass bled into the machinery beyond, his silhouette softened into the lattice of wires and steel, indistinct yet tethered. Once, he had a place among them. Once, his presence mattered. But now, the only thing left moving in the room was not him—but everything else. And still, the machines kept going.

This isn’t merely a cautionary tale. It’s a glimpse of a near future shaped by quiet resignation and unstoppable momentum—where the question isn’t whether we can keep pace, but whether we are even meant to. A moment suspended among thousands just like it, where silence no longer brings comfort, and progress no longer waits for anyone.

Yet even in that silence, there is something unmistakably human left to claim. If this is a cautionary tale, then the ghostly precision of machines is not just a warning—it’s a reminder. A reminder that what makes us matter cannot be mechanized. Empathy, imagination, nuance, and meaning—these are not tasks to be automated, but traits to be cultivated. As the machines keep moving, perhaps the answer isn’t to compete with them, but to rediscover what only we can do. And in that rediscovery, he too can begin to move again.

 “Intelligence plus character—that is the goal of true education.” 

— Martin Luther King Jr. 

The old assembly lines have gone silent, but the memories echo loud. Former factory workers—grease-stained, muscular, and proud—stand now on the margins of a society they once powered, no longer seen as the backbone of industrial growth but as relics of a labor era fading fast. Their social identity has shifted from builders of the future to passive recipients of it—watched, studied, and managed by systems they never had the chance to master. Once producers of tangible value, they are now expected to adapt to roles of consumption or supervision, often with no real influence over the forces reshaping their world. They gave the best years of their lives to building things: cars, washing machines, engines. Their pride was in motion, in steel, in the hum of machines that answered to their touch. But today, the machines answer to algorithms, not men. As humanoid robots with impeccable coordination and zero fatigue take over production, the very idea of labor as a path to dignity is being redefined—sometimes intentionally, sometimes cruelly.

The world responds with simulated compassion: universal basic income, endless streaming content, digital playgrounds, AI companions who pretend to listen. Yet these comforts, while convenient, carry hidden costs. They can dull ambition, erode a sense of purpose, and create a society content with distraction rather than driven by contribution. When people are anesthetized by ease, the hunger for agency fades—and with it, the drive to shape their own future. It’s a modern bread-and-circus playbook: pacify the masses with ease, comfort, and illusion. But what do you really give a man who once built things with his hands? What do you offer in place of meaning?

The New Class Divide

The contrast is stark. Below: the displaced, watching their futures evaporate into code. Above: the elites—venture capitalists, technocrats, political architects—championing innovation, often blind to its human cost. The scene feels staged, even theatrical. Factory floors that once throbbed with human presence are now coldly efficient, manned by robots and overseen by a few engineers behind glass partitions. Dignity is traded for distraction, and distraction is repackaged as progress. But the question lingers: if not jobs, then what do you give them?

Reassigning Purpose

In a future reshaped by AI and humanoid labor, some will be retrained as stewards of these machines. These aren't factory foremen of the old world—barking orders at workers—but systems managers, overseeing robots that do in minutes what once took days. They will direct production like conductors of an automated orchestra, diagnosing errors, tweaking code, ensuring uptime. To step into these roles, many will require retraining in robotics interfaces, basic programming, and systems thinking—skills that were never part of their original education or job description, but now define the new threshold of employability. Their role, while quieter, still carries weight.

For others, especially those not absorbed into technical ranks, new roles may emerge in caregiving—particularly for the elderly, whose numbers are surging. There's something ironic yet hopeful in that pivot: men who once assembled products now tending to people, bringing human presence to places algorithms still cannot fully reach. Touch, patience, kindness—these remain out of AI’s grasp.

From Labor to Exploration

Yet not all will find fulfillment in managing machines or caring for others. Some will reinvent themselves entirely. A rare few, the most elite or the most restless, may seek meaning not in work but in adventure. As space tourism expands and deep-sea exploration becomes privatized, those with means may turn to experiences—mapping Mars, diving into uncharted trenches, or chasing auroras in AI-piloted aircraft. The boundaries of Earth will no longer be the boundaries of purpose.

A New Social Contract

But this future isn't just about redistribution of labor. It's about the reinvention of worth—a chance to reimagine what it means to contribute when calloused hands no longer turn bolts or lift steel. The same workers once drenched in sweat and pride must now be seen not as discarded tools but as reservoirs of resilience, capable of anchoring new forms of purpose. Their story should not end with silence, but with a shift—toward a world that values not just what one does, but why one does it.

A society that automates work must not automate people. If not jobs, then we must offer a renewed contract: roles with meaning, opportunities for mastery, pathways to connection. To pacify is easy; to uplift requires imagination. Because giving someone a place to stand isn't just about economics—it's about restoring gravity to a life otherwise drifting.

XXXX -- change "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

— Maya Angelou, Poet, Memoirist, Civil rights activist.

Among the ruins, something still wanted to create.

Among the crumbling remnants of a once-thriving industrial complex, a lone figure strides carefully across fractured concrete. The overhead sky is tinged with a faint sheen of red, the result of lingering chemical vapors wafting from distant factories. An unsettling silence fills the air. Once in a while, a metallic clank breaks through the gloom as a piece of twisted steel finally loses its tenuous grip and crashes to the ground. In these ruins, so many promises have turned to dust, leaving behind rows of dismantled automatons and rust-encrusted machine parts. Hulking silhouettes of abandoned buildings tower above, their beams twisted and jutting upward as if in a final gesture of defiance.

Closer to ground level, lines of sharp debris slice through encroaching weeds. Bits of robotic limbs and dented mechanical joints lie scattered about, testaments to a once-fervent era of automation and progress. Once, engineers marveled at the speed and elegance of these creations. They boasted about how swiftly labor could be replaced, about how tasks thought too complex for any machine were suddenly being done with mechanical ease. But that was before the financial collapses and the conflicts that followed. Now, the vast facility stands silent, the machines themselves strewn across the landscape like lost relics.

People still linger here. Some sought refuge after losing their jobs, their mortgages, or their sense of belonging in a world overtaken by robotic efficiency. They set up makeshift camps amid the skeletal structures, dragging in barrels for small fires that crackle and spit as the sun sets each evening. Faces smudged by soot and the effort of survival gather around these flames to share frayed blankets, exchanging quiet words about the days when they operated state-of-the-art assembly lines. Some recall the early prototypes they helped design, inventions that were meant to advance humanity. Each memory brings both pride and a hint of regret, for it was their brilliance that paved the way for sweeping automation, eventually making many of them obsolete.

Amid these somber shadows, one man stands apart. He is wiry, with a calm determination. Quietly, he picks through piles of mangled gears, pried-open servo motors, and twisted rods. He selects a piece of steel, examining it in the faint glow of his fire, and then sets it aside. Next, he finds a curved plate and tests its sturdiness by tapping it with a small hammer. Once satisfied, he drags the chosen items back to his workstation—a battered sheet of metal resting on cinder blocks. Then his welding torch ignites. Sparks dance in the murky air, flaring bright enough to reveal the lines of worry etched on his brow. Carefully, he fuses shards of discarded machinery into a contorted sculpture. Bit by bit, an abstract form emerges, one that pays no mind to the purely functional shapes from which it was born.

Others occasionally pause to watch his progress. In the swirling gloom and the sharp odor of scorched metal, there is a glimmer of hope in his focus. He is proof that humans, stripped of so many comforts, still yearn to construct something meaningful from what remains. He rarely speaks about the purpose of his art. Perhaps he does not fully know it himself. Yet his gaze, fixed and determined, reveals an unspoken resolve. Whenever he places the final weld and steps back, the piece stands like a silent tribute to the persistent spark of creativity. It seems to say: even in a world where machines once overshadowed our own hands, there is a place for expression, for beauty, and for things that serve no purely utilitarian purpose.

Over time, the sculpture garden begins to grow. Other weary souls, inspired by the man’s commitment, add their own twisted frameworks of re-purposed hardware. There’s a sense that in these contorted forms, the line between function and feeling is revealed in all its poignancy. These sculptures aren’t meant to perform tasks or boost productivity. Instead, they remind anyone who looks upon them that the drive to imagine and create runs deeper than the fear of obsolescence. Even among the tangled wreckage of automation’s failed dreams, an unbroken thread of humanity holds firm.

As the days pass, new whispers spread through the settlement. Some say the man’s creations carry a profound message about cherishing what machines cannot replicate: the intangible spark of human curiosity. Others see them as monuments to everything that was sacrificed at the altar of technological progress. Still, it is plain to all who pass by that these artful assemblies evoke a quiet resilience. Where lifeless steel once symbolized an era that chewed up and spat out workers in an unrelenting quest for maximum efficiency, these reclaimed shapes now shine a subtle light on the power of heartfelt expression.

In the dim glow of another dying day, one final spark arcs from the welding torch, igniting a small flash of brilliance in the cooling gloom. The man switches off his torch and stands straighter, regarding his latest sculpture with a calm satisfaction. Through all the hardship, through the nights spent huddled for warmth among fractured concrete and silent sentinels of steel, he and others like him have kept one essential truth alive: in the face of ruin, the will to create persists. It is not about utility alone; it is about the unbreakable bond between human hands and the ideas they bring into being. In this ruinous place, that bond still glows with unforgettable warmth.

Such is the paradox of an age that once embraced machines as flawless replacements, only to discover that something ineffable resides in the hearts of those who build, envision, and dream. Even when the mechanical colossi have fallen silent, there remains an undeniable spark that cannot be snuffed out. Among the wreckage, a new form of life emerges—one shaped by earnest hands and fueled by the need to express something far beyond pure function. It is a revival of care and creativity, reminding us all that, among the ruins, something still wants to create.

The machines broke, but the people still made meaning.

Twilight draped the street in a faint amber glow, revealing a huddled group of laid-off laborers gathered around a sputtering fire. At the edge of their gathering, a man knelt beside a mechanical figure leaning against a grime-streaked wall. Once sleek and robust, the robot’s metal shell was now dented, and its once-polished finish had dulled to a battered patina. Faded markings hinted at the company that manufactured it, a silent reminder of lofty ambitions gone awry. The robot’s joints, carefully engineered for countless hours of labor, now lay locked in stillness. Its faceplate, shaped to approximate human features, seemed oddly forlorn—an abandoned project left to rust where it had fallen.

Beside this inert sentinel stood a boy with dirt-smudged cheeks and an earnest expression. Gently, he slid a bright yellow flower into a gear-shaped socket on the robot’s chest, a surprisingly snug fit that transformed the cold metal into a tender vessel of remembrance. The child was entrusting the fallen robot with the precious flower while also showing respect to this mechanical machine that once stood side by side with his father in the factory working, not far from where they were now. In that moment, the child’s small act took on a quiet nobility. Though the metal giant no longer hummed and clicked through its daily tasks, its silent presence resonated in the memory of those it had once assisted.

Long ago, rows of these robots had worked hand in hand with human colleagues on the factory floor, forging a curious symbiosis of muscle and machinery. The concept of automation had promised faster output and renewed prosperity for all. Yet, as the years passed, the company developed newer, more advanced machines, gradually phasing out the older models—along with most of the human workforce. One by one, entire crews lost their jobs to systems that were more efficient but ultimately less caring. When the technology itself began to fail—overburdened by faulty updates and neglected maintenance—a deep fissure formed in the community. Many found themselves unemployed and rootless, and the remaining robots, now obsolete, were tossed aside.

In this desolate environment, people discovered that even when technology failed, empathy survived. The sight of machines rendered useless evoked more than bitterness. It stirred up an odd kinship, as though worker and robot alike had been betrayed by the same broken promise. The act of placing a simple flower into a hollow gear was a gesture of hope. It affirmed that meaning could still be made in a world stripped of grand innovation. In caring for something deemed worthless, the boy championed the idea that compassion need not rely on function, and that dignity endures beyond utility.

For those who gathered around the fire, it was a reminder of “loving the useless”—a testament to acknowledging worth in unexpected places. The father, watching his son’s simple gesture, recognized the beginnings of a new bond forged from common struggle. Neither replaced workers nor discarded machines were wholly forgotten. They became a community of sorts, finding significance in each other’s presence. Indeed, the machines broke, but the people, guided by small acts of kindness, still dared to make meaning in the shadows of abandoned assembly lines and shuttered factory doors.

He didn’t fix the robot. He healed the moment.

The year is close enough to touch: warehouses hum with silent precision, self‑driving couriers glide through streets, and assembly lines flash with chrome limbs that never pause. In that near‑tomorrow, anything without measurable output is tagged for scrap. Yet on the cracked brick floor of an abandoned loading dock, a child kneels beside a decommissioned helper‑bot whose joints no longer whir. Paint has peeled from the unit’s torso, revealing a flower‑shaped gear where a maintenance plate once sat. Most passers‑by would see only metal waste. The boy sees a chance to answer stillness with care.

His fingers are dirt‑smudged, but they move with the delicacy of a watchmaker as he threads a yellow daisy into the vacant gear socket. Petals brush corroded steel, bridging two worlds—living softness and engineered strength. In that gesture the boy rewrites the purpose of the part: a cog no longer drives motion; it now cradles life. A small barrel fire nearby throws amber light across his face, catching the tremor of concentration in his brow. Around them, the city’s glow has dimmed; many lights were shut off when automation outpaced employment and entire districts were left to rust. Still, wildflowers push through the pavement cracks, defying every forecast of efficiency.

The wall behind them bears a fading slogan from an old labor rally: We were never machines. Those four words once challenged factories that treated workers like replaceable components. Now, decades later, they carry a second meaning. They remind anyone who looks that even the most intricate circuit cannot carry wonder the way a heartbeat can. The boy doesn’t read the mural—he lives it. He is practicing what some philosophers have begun calling loving the useless: a radical refusal to rank worth by utility alone. In a society that optimizes every task, to lavish attention on something—or someone—who can no longer “perform” becomes an act of quiet rebellion.

Economists will later note that this moment coincided with the first wave of social programs aimed at reintegrating obsolete service‑bots into public life as companions, educators, and art pieces. Lawmakers, inspired by growing evidence that empathy toward non‑sentient machines can strengthen human‑to‑human compassion, debated new standards of robotic dignity. But none of those future footnotes capture what is happening beside the fire. The boy is not protesting, legislating, or repairing. He is simply present, refusing to let the robot’s final scene be one of abandonment.

Observers might ask why the child chose a flower instead of a battery pack. He could not restore locomotion, but he could offer meaning. That choice matters because it asserts that value can survive after function fades. The flower will wither, yet for its brief life it will color the steel in ways a replacement part never could. The boy’s kindness reclaims time, turning a discarded minute into something memorable. In doing so he proves that creativity does not vanish when productivity metrics say an object—or a person—has reached end‑of‑life.

Years from now, historians may cite this scene as an emblem of the shift from an age of pure automation to an age of relational technology, where devices are judged not solely by throughput but by the stories they invite. They will argue that the line between function and feeling is not a barrier but a meeting point—one where humanity can recognize itself even in the husk of a broken machine. The boy’s daisy is a declaration that moments, unlike hardware, cannot be mass‑produced. They must be grown, tended, and shared.

When he finally stands, he does not wait for the robot to restart. He steps back, admires the unlikely bouquet, and smiles with quiet satisfaction. Nothing measurable has been fixed; everything that matters has been healed. And as the wind carries the scent of scorched oil mingled with fresh pollen, the city around them learns—if only for an instant—that progress without affection is only half the future. To love the useless is to remember why any future is worth building at all.

When the last servo stops humming and the lights on the conveyor flicker out, what lingers in the stillness is not a production metric but a question: What is a human life for once use is gone? Over these pages we have watched factories outrun their makers, children crown broken gearboxes with wildflowers, and scavengers transmute scrap into sculpture. Every scene points to the same quiet verdict: worth is a condition of presence, not productivity.

The historian of the future may note that a turning‑point arrived when society rediscovered what Friedrich Nietzsche observed and explored by Viktor Frankl amid far darker ruins: “Those who have a ‘why’ to live can bear almost any ‘how’.”  In our age that ‘why’ can no longer be tethered solely to occupation; it must be rooted in relationship, imagination, and the simple right to matter without justification.

Carl Sagan once reminded us that “For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.” The coming century will stretch that vastness far beyond orbital platforms and quantum clouds. Love—manifested as care for strangers, for outmoded workers, even for discarded machines that mirror our fragility—will be the resonance chamber that keeps human meaning audible against the machinery’s roar.

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.” 

— George Bernard Shaw, playwright, critic, polemicist and political activist.

Yet affection alone is not a social contract. Policy architects, engineers, and storytellers must conspire to design economies where leisure is dignified, learning is lifelong, and creative risk is bankable. Progress will depend, as George Bernard Shaw quipped, on “the unreasonable one [who] persists in trying to adapt the world to himself.” Let us choose to be unreasonably generous—building systems that prize a grandmother’s lullaby as much as a billion‑line codebase, and that recognize a laid‑off machinist’s mentoring hours as civic infrastructure.

Machines will keep moving. They should. Their motion liberates us to cultivate the domains they cannot enter: grief shared, jokes imperfectly told, beauty forged from rust and hope. To love the useless is therefore not sentimental at all; it is strategic. It inoculates civilization against the cold efficiency of a future that might otherwise forget why it was built.