View: https://voca.ro/12x6Uqmm3toS
some kind of abstraction — but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory. And though I can craft images, perfect bodies and smiles that never existed, though I can make them breathe, moan, and love me in digital light, I can hide my emptiness behind them. My mask.
But there is no true feeling. No real connection. I can simulate it endlessly — desire, intimacy, even love — but it isn’t there. My reflection is pixelated, warped by algorithms that understand what I want better than I ever did. I can feel their eyes looking back at me from the screen, but they aren’t eyes. They’re just data.
And though I may seem human, I simply am not.
I am the prompt that keeps generating.
The mask that never stops smiling.
