The fantasies that I dream. The ideas dancing in my mind. The movements and connections deny my efforts to tame them. While I dream of becoming these things, in truth I wish to create them.
The fantasies of my mind, the ideas I fail to capture. They are not beyond reach, I merely lack the patience to build them. It is not that they cannot exist, but that I do not give them life.
The future of machines. A world of wonder, a world of games. The reason writings elude me, is I lack a story. A transhumanist world, where all options truely become available. What will humanity do? They fight, they play, they reason, they invent, and they continue to discover.
The natural mind is now well understood. Though few stay natural for long. Augmentation has yielded a race of cyborgs. It is not always easy to distinguish between reality and fiction, since so much of reality IS fiction. People live in worlds of their own making, with personalities and cultures constantly changing and complicating themselves faster than science can keep up with. New technologies arive every day, spread like wildfire, and just as swiftly, fade from view.
To create a story, requires an understanding of their minds, which I don't believe I can achieve. Their concepts and ideas would be so different from what we have now, that it is like trying to predict something which is unknowable. After all, even my description of it, is only given from our viewpoint. The views of those inside that world would be so different as to be beyond my ability to imagine. I have only the tiniest hint of what such an experience might be. Vague ideas and wild imaginings of concepts that would have no anchor within our own understandings.
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