They kept calling it freedom,
but no one ever defined what we were supposed to be free from.
I was born in a city where the sky had been replaced by screens,
and people no longer looked up —
only forward.
Always forward.
Chasing things that disappeared the moment they touched them.
My name doesn’t matter.
It was given to me by a system that never asked who I was.
Just another profile.
Another input.
Another asset in the algorithm.
But something cracked one night.
Not a revelation.
Not a revolution.
Just…
a sound.
Faint. Familiar.
Not from outside, but from within.
A voice I had forgotten was mine.
It whispered,
“You were not made to obey the rhythm.
You were the one meant to write it.”
So I stopped scrolling.
And I started listening.
To silence.
To stillness.
To the noise beneath the noise —
The one that screams truth when the world demands performance.
That night, I wrote my first sentence outside the cage.
“I remember who I was… before they told me who I should be.”
I don’t know what happens next.
But I know this:
When you start listening to the voice they tried to erase,
you stop being content.
You stop being a product.
You start becoming… real.
Have you ever heard your own voice… beneath the noise?
Ashborn
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