There's a kind of archaeology that happens in old hard drives—finding the person you were before you learned to live with yourself. These are dispatches from before the accommodation—when patterns still felt like revelations, when contradictions still drew blood. Written by someone who hadn't yet learned which truths to stop seeing. The distance between that person and now is where the learning lives. Sometimes you need your former self to tell you what you traded for the ability to sleep.
In the end, silicon handles the repetition and carbon provides the plot twists. And somewhere between the automated and the artisanal, we're building a world that runs on our oldest currency: the spectacle of each other, failing beautifully.
