nBus-Client-API

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