i remain seated in my simple pink chair. my fingers probe at the keyboard of this computer, and i begin to type freely.
my antiquated typewriter rests above me on a shelf. the age of the typewriter tears the paint, as speckles of white taint the charcoal color.
there is an open book beside me, the spine stretched and strained. the words tell a tale of a life that once sought meaning and goodness. but that was long ago. the book was written in 1952.
i know that i am sixteen. i was practically born during the peak of modern technology. but the stark contrast between history and modernity has become unbearable--dismal, even.
they thought they were presenting a different world. a new world. little did they know, they would strip and peel individuality off humanity.
i have noticed that people are scared to leave the realm of fantasy. perhaps they are afraid that their values will conflict with conventional ideas. or, ostensibly, fear of themselves.
technology has bred fearful people who do not seek the unknown. we are haunted by a lack of intellectual curiosity, and that must be the worst punishment of all. i do not blame humanity, for we are all born with goodness; it is technology that has distorted reality.
of course, i am not a misanthropist. i just believe in integrity and principle. no matter how concealed by the rubble of history, there is still a chance of decency that lies beneath.
i am hopeful that one day-- a day far in the distance-- more people will come to realize that modern technology has destructed the literal process of thinking, feeling, and speaking.
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