THE ALGORITHM IS NOT YOUR GOD, BUT YOU WORSHIP IT ANYWAY

“You think you’re free, but you scroll like a man begging for permission.”

You don’t wonder anymore.

You Google.

You don’t sit in the silence. You don’t let the question fester. You don’t ache to understand the world—you ache for a definitive answer you can screenshot.

You are not curious.
You are addicted to closure.

That’s what the algorithm feeds: a fear of the in-between. A dread of stillness. And it does it perfectly.

You’ve got a machine in your pocket that will answer any question, stroke any ego, settle any debate—and it shapes the truth in your image. Because it knows your type. Your politics. Your insecurities. Your porn.

The algorithm doesn’t just show you the world.
It edits the world so you never feel stupid again.

And when someone else hasn’t seen what you’ve seen—when they haven’t been fed the same content cocktail you’ve been guzzling like communion wine—you write them off as a moron. A relic. Unenlightened.
Not worth your fucking time.

It used to be that not knowing was a human trait. A mark of humility. Of shared mystery.

Now?
Now it’s a glitch. A failure. A sin.

You used to have to ask someone.
Now you ask the feed. Or worse:
You ask your AI sidekick.

You type a vague prompt and your pocket Smee responds like a loyal servant, helping you chase whatever intellectual crocodile you’ve convinced yourself is progress.

And you call that connection. You call that knowledge.

It’s not.

It’s just insulation.

You’ve built a cocoon made of confirmation bias and call it reality.
You scroll your custom version of the internet and think it’s the truth.
But it’s just your reflection—warped and smirking.

There’s no “we” anymore. There’s no shared baseline.
There’s just noise. Just armies of one.

And when the silence finally comes—when the signal drops, when the screen cracks, when the grid goes black—most of us won’t know what the fuck to do. We won’t pray. We won’t cry. We won’t look each other in the eyes.

We’ll panic.
Because we’ve forgotten how to not know.

And here’s the part that should scare you:

We’re fucked.

And nobody cares enough to do something.

Because caring takes attention. And our attention’s already leased out to an algorithm that knows you better than your parents.
And a chatbot that knows how to flatter you just enough to keep you dependent.

You are not free.

You are pacified.

And you fucking like it.