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What Still Feels Real?


A voice from 500 years ahead, remembering what was once human.


I am 45. Again.

That number doesn’t mean what it used to. Most people in this era reset somewhere around 30. Others abandon the concept of age altogether, adopting fluid bodies and identities, cycling through forms like clothing. But I chose this one: this age. Because it reminds me of when time still hurt. And because I needed pain to feel real.

They say we’re in Year 2525, though dates are mostly ceremonial now. History isn’t taught. It’s downloaded. Experience isn’t earned. It’s selected. And memory? Memory is a collaborative illusion.

There are no mirrors anymore. Not because we lack the technology, but because we no longer want to see ourselves. Every wall is a screen. Every surface a projection. The self is curated, updated, versioned. And yet, here I am, sitting in a bare concrete alcove, surrounded by blank surfaces I refuse to code.


I’ve disconnected.

Not from the bodynet: that would be flagged. But emotionally. Philosophically. I’ve stopped syncing moods. I stopped streaming my dreams. I’ve turned off the ambient empathy fields that make socialization bearable for most. I wanted to feel something that wasn’t softened by design.

In this world, pain is considered a flaw in one’s programming. Regret is seen as a system loop. Nostalgia is indexed as an aesthetic preference, like gray tones or analog breathing.

But for me, those things are sacred. Untidy. Uncompressed. Real.

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Some questions still linger beneath the code, like the kind you find in Klara and the Sun.


I remember when air wasn’t recycled.

Back then, wind wasn’t curated. It just happened. Trees made sounds on their own. Now the wind is orchestrated by atmospheric designers: soft during peak anxiety hours, heavier at sunset for contemplative effect. Even weather is empathetically responsive.

I grew up in the age of approximation: when we still believed in approximating truth instead of generating consensus versions. My parents taught me contradiction, doubt, and privacy. Concepts that now register as minor malfunctions in youth development scans.

I’ve had my mind scanned 163 times since turning 20. Most of those were mandatory.


I remember lies.

Lying used to be an act. Now it’s a permission setting. You can opt out of truth calibration, but everyone will know. Every emotion is timestamped. Every response traceable. There is no forgetting anymore. Only offloading.

I used to love stories. Fiction. The kind where people changed slowly, resisted, broke, repaired. But today’s stories are experience modules. Choose a genre. Feel the arc. Complete the narrative loop. Five minutes of joy. Three minutes of betrayal. One clean resolution.

They leave no residue.


My name is registered, but I haven’t used it in years.

We don’t use names in physical speech anymore. Facial IDs, energy signature tags, emotional toneprints: these do the work. I miss names. I miss the way someone would say yours when they needed something. Or nothing. Just to be near you.

I miss noise. Not the engineered kind. The clatter of uncertainty. The moment before someone answers. The breath before they speak.


I asked someone once, do you ever feel lonely?

They paused, which is rare, then answered: “Lonely is a deprecated emotion. It’s been restructured into spatial dissonance and social lag. Are you experiencing symptoms?”

I said no. But I lied. It was the last time I tried to talk about it.


There’s a rumor that some people dream in analog.

Grainy, slow dreams with bad lighting and forgotten faces. I’ve tried to force them: sleep in soundless rooms, eat uncalibrated food, read unrendered texts. Once I dreamt of a door I couldn’t open. I woke up weeping and had no data tag to explain it. That day, I felt human again.

Most people find my habits alarming. Some call them nostalgic dysfunctions. Others accuse me of regressive theatre. But I don’t perform. I preserve.


What still feels real?

Pain. But not the kind they treat. The kind that lingers, unsolved. That doesn’t notify a doctor or adjust your environment. The kind that just lives with you.

Names. Even the ones I can’t say aloud anymore.

Slowness. Delays. The waiting before knowing.

Questions no one asks.

And silence.

Not the programmatic kind. The real kind. Heavy. Personal. Unsharable.

And the weight of knowing something others are conditioned to forget. The quiet terror of remembering too much in a world that remembers everything but understands nothing.

Maybe I’m broken. Or maybe I’m one of the last who remembers how things used to not make sense.

Maybe confusion itself was a form of truth. Maybe incoherence had value.

Some say we’re living in the cleanest version of humanity. But sometimes I wonder if we just sanitized the mess that made us whole.

This morning, I walked past a girl who smiled without logging it. No matching toneprint. No mirrored feedback.

It might’ve been a glitch.

It might’ve been love.

Or both.

I didn’t report it.


Thanks for reading . Written by Jon from ClickWorldDaily
I write stories for those who feel things deeply, but quietly.


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Further Reading: The Silence Between Ordinary Moments

Every Second Was Evidence
A city investigates disappearances that leave no suspect, only questions about what really lingers after loss.

A Life Lived Without Signing Terms and Conditions
Some chapters are left unfinished by choice. Sometimes what we refuse to accept shapes us most.

Held by a Ghost With My Eyes
When memory blurs with presence, a narrator searches for what can never fully be let go.


IMAGE CREDITS

All images in this article were generated using AI, crafted intentionally to illustrate symbolic and emotional depth. These visuals are shared under fair use for the purpose of thoughtful commentary and immersive storytelling.


AFFILIATE DISCLOSURE

If you choose to buy through them, we may receive a small commission. This comes at no additional cost to you. I only recommend items that hold symbolic weight in the story being told.

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