The change
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Year 2068
11:00 PM
The world took an unexpected turn. Instead of advancing, technology regressed in the years that followed. The promises of a brighter future, where technology would solve all of humanity's problems, crumbled before our very eyes. The decline was so severe that drastic measures had to be taken by the World Organization, a governing body formed to manage the chaos.
In a desperate attempt to regain control, the upper echelons of humanity declared a complete lockdown. The streets, once bustling with life, are now eerily empty. No one is allowed outside. The cities are silent, and the world feels like a ghost town. Everything is now online, from work to social interaction. Workers are required to join a corporation under the World Organization, where officials oversee and guide them in their daily tasks, ensuring compliance with the new world order.
The reason for all of this? The truth remains hidden, shrouded in secrecy. We, the common people, are left in the dark. Whispers of conspiracy and fear circulate through the hidden channels of the internet, but no one dares speak out loud. We live in a state of controlled ignorance, our every move monitored, our every thought influenced by those in power.
Now, we spend our days lazily at home. Everything we desire is ordered online, delivered to our doors by drones that buzz through the skies like mechanical insects. The once vibrant human connections have dwindled to digital interactions, cold and impersonal. The sense of community has faded, replaced by isolation and apathy. The world, as we once knew it, is gone, replaced by a hollow shell of its former self.
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In this unfavorable situation, I, John Walker, am a nobody—just another insignificant author who spends his days at home, doing nothing but trying to write a story that will trend. The dream of becoming a renowned writer once burned brightly within me, but now it feels like a distant memory, a flickering flame barely kept alive by my stubborn persistence.
Every day, I sit in front of my outdated computer, fingers hovering over the keys, trying to squeeze out words that will resonate with a world that has lost its way. I tell myself that if I can just write the right story, if I can capture the essence of our fractured reality, then maybe—just maybe—I'll be able to break free from this suffocating existence.
But as the days turn into weeks, and the weeks into months, doubt begins to creep in. What if I'm just deluding myself? What if the world no longer cares about stories, about imagination, about the power of words? What if I'm nothing more than a relic of a bygone era, clinging to a dream that no longer has a place in this cold, mechanical world?
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In a dimly lit room, papers are scattered everywhere, covering almost every surface. Notes, outlines, and half-finished drafts are strewn about in disarray, a physical manifestation of the chaos that has taken root in my mind. The room itself is a mess, the floor hidden beneath a layer of dust and debris. It's clear the room hasn't been cleaned in who knows how long. But I don't care. My focus is elsewhere, consumed by the story that I'm desperately trying to bring to life.
In one corner of the room, I sit hunched over an old computer, its screen flickering weakly in the dim light. The machine is a relic, like everything else in this world, but it's all I have. I adjust my glasses, pushing them up the bridge of my nose as I stare intently at the words on the screen. My fingers move rapidly over the keys, the clacking sound echoing in the otherwise silent room.
Time passes, but I remain focused, oblivious to the hours slipping away. The world outside could be crumbling, and I wouldn't notice. All that matters is the story I'm crafting, each word bringing me closer to a world far from the reality I'm trapped in.
But as I type, a gnawing sensation of futility creeps in. Will anyone ever read this? Does it even matter? The world has changed so much, and the value of creativity, of storytelling, seems to have been lost in the process. I shake my head, trying to dispel the doubts. I have to keep going. I have to finish this.
*Ring* *Ring*
The sudden sound jolts me from my trance. I glance at my phone, the screen lighting up with a notification. It's a message from the World Organization, reminding me of my daily tasks, of the duties I'm supposed to fulfill to maintain my place in this new society.
I sigh, the weight of reality crashing down on me once more. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, just letting the message disappear into the void. But I know better. The World Organization doesn't tolerate disobedience. If I don't comply, there will be consequences.
Reluctantly, I push my chair back and stand up, the creak of the old wood echoing in the room. My legs feel stiff, and I realize I've been sitting for hours. The story will have to wait. There are other, more pressing matters to attend to.
As I move through the room, stepping over the scattered papers, I can't help but feel a pang of resentment. This isn't the life I imagined for myself. This isn't the future I envisioned. But what choice do I have? We're all trapped in this new world, bound by the rules and regulations of the World Organization.
Yet, deep down, a small spark of defiance still burns. Maybe one day, things will change. Maybe one day, the world will wake up, and we'll break free from this oppressive reality.
But until then, all I have are my words, my stories. And I'll keep writing, no matter how futile it may seem. Because in a world that has lost its way, perhaps stories are all we have left.
Ring ring