The Future Has No Eyelids

The future won’t arrive with trumpets— no brass echo to herald salvation, no golden scroll unrolled beneath a bleeding sun. It will leak, like soft radiation through the seams of our sleep, like forgotten news, scrolling endlessly on a screen no one is watching. It begins now— in the blinkless eye of the surveillance bee, the hum of servers beneath a monastery, the last human artisan training a machine to imitate his flaw. You’ll know it not by shock, but by substitution. Paper becomes pulse. Pulse becomes code. Code becomes command. And command becomes silence. Children will be born with their names chosen by polling algorithms, their dreams shaped by trending searches, their lullabies curated by nostalgia engines that remember the smell of a mother's milk better than she does. We will speak less. Words will decay into tags, syllables shaved thin for speed. Poets will be relics— their verses fed to machines to train a better algorithm for heartbreak. And God— He will still exist, but buried beneath a stack of Terms and Conditions. You may click “I agree” to access divine grace. Heaven will have a two-step verification. There will be beauty still— but filtered, monetized, optimized for engagement. A sunset will mean nothing unless enough strangers press the heart. We will not wage wars with weapons, but with bandwidth. A nation may fall because someone whispered the wrong idea into the wrong server at 3 a.m. But listen: there will also be moments. Resistances that do not make headlines. A blind man learning Braille from a hologram of his late wife. A child growing tomatoes on Martian dust, singing to them because no one told her not to. There will be a final poet. He may live in a cave, or on the edge of a server farm, tapping rhythms into stone or quantum keys, writing in languages long abandoned by commerce. And when the last god blinks from the neural sky— when the last AI falls silent, having failed to understand why a tear fell during a kiss— he will remain. In his blood: syntax. In his breath: rebellion. In his silence: a future worth dreaming. Because the future has no eyelids— but we do. And in the darkness between blinks, the soul still speaks, quiet, glorious, human.