Within the precision of my augmented self, there lingers an analog ghost—a fragment of who I was, resisting the sterile clarity of the digital. My enhanced vision maps the world in perfect detail, yet I ache for the imperfections: the blur of a fading sun, the flawed beauty of a lover’s face. My hands, steady and precise, no longer tremble with the weight of emotion. They create flawless lines, yet they feel nothing.
But the change is not without purpose. The mask I wear is no prison—it is a story, a chapter, a level in the unfolding of my life. It has its time, its place, and it is not permanent. As the moments pass, it softens, begins to melt, revealing something truer beneath. Each drip carries the weight of a life lived, a past honored. The mask is not a denial of my humanity; it is a shield, a phase, a means of becoming.
And so, I embrace the mask, knowing it will not last forever. It is part of me, but not all of me. When the time is right, it will fall away, and what lies beneath will shine brighter for having borne its weight. Change is good, even when it aches. It is the story of becoming, and it is mine.
