We are all Prisoners of Reality
We are all Prisoners of Reality. I used to joke that my brain was like a computer, though if we’re being honest, it was more like a Commodore 64 with a sticky keyboard and a five-and-a-quarter-inch floppy drive that occasionally ate my disks. My ideas—brilliant, chaotic, and frequently ahead of their time—were like poorly optimized programs: resource-heavy, prone to infinite loops, and guaranteed to crash at the worst possible moment. Back in those days, the internet was barely a thing, and personal computers were still magical beasts that most people didn’t understand. But I was hooked. While other kids were riding bikes or wasting quarters at the arcade, I was teaching myself to code, building rudimentary encryption methods, and writing my own version of Eliza, the so-called chatbot that was less “intelligent conversation partner” and more “sarcastic echo chamber.” I ran a BBS called Prisoners of Reality—a digital speakeasy where hackers, dreamers, and bored suburbanites ...