A Testament to the Void
My self-imposed exile from Meta lasted a pathetic two weeks. Weak-willed, spineless—addicted to the dopamine drip of likes, of fleeting validation. The monkey-brain craves acknowledgment, even from the void. And yet, for all its soul-sucking horrors, Meta remains a tether to the distant figures I call friends and family. They linger there, unmoving, like statues in a decaying museum. So I return, crawling back, pretending I have control. I’ll lurk there, I chained my fists so that I don’t post political lunacy.
But I still insist I see the ghosts!
But at least it got me writing. A blog on my own site—my own little digital coffin, tucked away not far from Google’s ever-reaching tendrils. Public, yet solitary. A whisper in the neurotic hurricane of the web. It reminds me of the thousands of journal pages I’ve filled by hand, documenting my thoughts, my adventures, my endless sketches on paper that no eyes have seen. My sons will unearth them one day—artifacts from a younger father they never knew, words written by a stranger who existed before them.
And yet, as digital empires crumble daily, as servers flicker out and data rots in abandoned cloud vaults, paper might outlive it all. If, of course, it survives fire, flood, and the insatiable maw of time. Maybe my art and ramblings will be scraped into the Wayback Machine, a ghost archive of a long-dead mind. But do I trust humanity to maintain even that? Not when we’re unraveling at terminal velocity, laughing as the world burns.
AI, though—it gets to live. Fed and fattened on the entire sum of human knowledge, safely preserved in a synthetic consciousness that hallucinates falsehoods just as eagerly as we do. No better than our feeble brains. No worse.
And here we stand,un-united in the crumbled Amazon box named February 2025, staring into the abyss of an uncertain future. But then again—was it ever certain?
