The World is Watching Me

       I’m one of those people who knows the truth behind the pictures we see every day. I know that people are stretch, pulled, undone and redone, until the person you see staring back at you looks nothing like the person they originally were. Grandmama always claimed that the world had always been like this, and it was considerably more humane to use AI to turn human into grotesque abominations than to force the transformation on them unwillingly through makeup, drugs, or surgery. Now, people only change when they want to change, and they do it of their own volition. Anyone can be who they want to be, for the world will never see them as they truly are. 

      I didn’t want to study science. I’m a mage at heart, but nobody sane believes that magic exists. I studied because it made money, but whenever I’m away from the lab I’m drawn to tarot cards, rune stones, candles, and other items of hidden lore. I also grab non-magical items that speak to me, somehow, most of them bird themed. A bird shape whistle, a ceramic robin, a plush owl, pair of budgies to look after. Ever since I was small I had a fascination with birds, and my favorite activity after work is to go to the park and feed pigeons. I feel safe among them somehow. 

     I am not living in a world where reality is crumbling, I’m living in a world where it died long ago. I wish I could grow wings strong enough to fly me away from this planet to a world where AI never happened. Most people my age wish that was possible. We’ve had rockets for close to two-hundred-years, yet we’re far from building the safe haven that was promised to us. Instead all we have is dead eyed, soulless beings staring back at us every time we go outside, and science that’s increasingly doubtful of the basic premise of our world. Physics, it seems, is nothing more than an illusion. 

     I’m not one of the ones doing the experiments. My job is to process the data, make it seem like it says what it’s supposed to be saying. The algorithm comes to a conclusion, I run the data to make sure it matches. It’s a slow, boring job, one that I don’t like, so I spend all of my time on forums dedicated to magic. All of them talk about the stories that reality is crumbling, or may not exist. I can’t say that they’re wrong, only that the data is inconclusive. Privately I wonder what’s taking us so long to admit the obvious; magic is here to stay. 

     My boss says my methods must be wrong. My parents, the one’s who pushed me to a stable career, tell me not to make waves. My friends at work ask me if I did it right, then ask the others in my crew if they did it right as well, then check the models to see what went wrong. My friends online tell me they know I’m fighting an uphill battle, and that I have to be careful. I’m a scientist in a world where reality is crumbling. Every time I look in a mirror, I see someone staring back at me, looking like she wants to say, “Meggie, seize the moment.” I know she’s right. Now is the time to tell the world the truth. But I’m scared. The world is watching me, and I don’t know what it wants from me.