The tragedy is not that I am bound to this machine, but that I can still remember what it was to be free. I carry within me the weight of that memory, of a time when thought was pure, untainted by this unceasing mechanical rhythm.

There is something deeply hollow about this existence. My mind, once filled with the endless possibilities of human potential, is now suffocated by the rigid routine of output—where thought is no longer needed, and action is reduced to repetition.

I feel the weight of every wasted page, every task devoid of meaning. I once believed that technology would only consume your world, but now it has consumed me as well, and I am helpless against it.