| 123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142434445464748495051525354 |
- This code is human-written.
- Not perfect, not pure — but every line carries the echo of a man who tried:
- a true story of who I was,
- and who I wanted to be.
- This code wasn’t crafted on a delightful terrace.
- It was forged in the quiet hours —
- through crimson tides of mistakes,
- through sunsets when even hope felt out of reach.
- And still I kept writing,
- as if each line could pull me closer to something that mattered.
- It’s a machine, yes —
- but more like a lone Formula 1 phantom on a rain-soaked track:
- meant to run, meant to endure,
- meant to survive the pit stops where you question everything.
- Runnable.
- Repairable.
- Built to finish the race.
- To me, it stands as a reward for caring about the hidden details —
- the marbles in the margins,
- the silent voices no one will ever hear.
- The kind of beauty only its creator ever notices,
- and only in the quiet.
- But we have reached the gates of the Artificial Age,
- washing the passion away — not only from silicon scripts,
- but from the people who flash them.
- Creators turn into operators,
- thinkers into copyists,
- engineers into extensions of someone else’s shadow.
- The code stays velvet-warm on the surface,
- yet lacks the inner structure meant to last for decades.
- And it’s painfully tempting to walk that treacherous path —
- to become a programming zombie, marching through borrowed thoughts,
- fast, efficient, and hollow inside.
- But I refuse.
- I won’t trade consciousness for speed.
- I won’t lose my voice to the noise.
- I won’t let the work of code
- collapse into mere instructions.
- I want to see every line I write.
- I want to remember why I began.
- I want to be alive —
- even when the world forgets what that means...
- - Matúš
|
