We built this world piece by piece. And somewhere along the way, we lost it. We chose to live inside something completely designed. Completely planned. Our visions traded for money, comfort, privilege. There’s almost no space left for accident. Everything runs. Everything performs. It looks like control, but it feels like a trap. We are not creators anymore. We are consumers feeding on content made by other consumers. It’s a closed circuit. A production line of “stuff” tailored perfectly to fit a Western lifestyle that keeps us busy, distracted, obedient. A smart system that doesn’t force you to do anything — it just makes sure you want exactly what was prepared for you. People talk about “new media” and “immersion” as if these words mean depth. Most of the time they mean layers. More interface. More stimulation. More light. The system is terrified of silence, so it keeps filling every gap. It can’t allow emptiness because emptiness might make us think. The more we produce, the less we actually see. I don’t believe in small corrections anymore. I think something has to break. The screen must crack. The lights must go out. Not as a metaphor, but as a necessity. Everything we built so carefully needs a moment of failure. Only then we might see what’s left without the glow. Until that happens, I stay in my own enclave. I build worlds that move to the rhythm of my fears, not to the rhythm of algorithms. They are unstable. Emotional. Sometimes uncomfortable. It’s the only place that still feels real to me.