I’m not sure why I’m writing this, but it’s 2 AM and I can’t sleep (the usual really, the mind just keeps going, churning, like one of those old industrial laundries you see in documentaries, just endless cycles), and I just… I need to say it, put it somewhere where it just *exists* and isn't just bouncing around in my skull, and I’m a retiree now, you know, finally got out of that corporate rat race (and it was a rat race, truly, but at least there was a finish line, a clear purpose even if it was just hitting quarterly targets), and I thought this would be it, the golden years, reconnecting with all the people I lost touch with, the old college gang, my buddies from the early days at the firm, neighbors who moved away, you know, the ones you always *meant* to grab coffee with but life just… happens, and the commute, always the commute, and suddenly there’s time, oceans of it, just stretching out like a vast empty parking lot after everyone’s gone home. So I started, right, I really did, I pulled out the old address book (yes, a physical one, some things you just can’t give up, a relic from a different era but it felt… tangible), and I found some names, some emails (surprisingly still active for a few, others I had to do some serious internet sleuthing, a whole new skill set really, I felt like a private investigator, but for friendship), and I sat down to write the first one, to Brenda from accounting, remember her? Always had that amazing laugh, always brought in the best homemade cookies for potlucks (and her chocolate chip recipe, oh my god, still haunts my dreams, but in a good way), and I wanted to tell her, like, hey, it’s been forever, how are you, I’m retired now, remember that trip we always talked about to Sedona? And I typed a few words, and then I just… stopped. It was like my fingers just froze, right there on the keyboard (a good mechanical keyboard, mind you, the clicky kind, I always liked the feedback, made me feel productive even when I was just surfing the internet), and the words just weren’t coming, or they were coming, but they felt… flat. Stilted. Like something out of a brochure. Not *me*. Not the me that Brenda remembered, I hoped. The me that used to tell jokes in the breakroom (bad ones, probably, but they landed sometimes, and that’s what matters), the me that could actually string together a coherent thought without feeling like I was drafting a formal memo, and it hit me, right then, a cold wave over my shoulders, that maybe my natural writing voice, after all those years of corporate speak (all those reports, all those compliance documents, all the jargon, the KPIs, the synergies, the touchpoints), maybe it was just… gone. Extinct. Like a dodo bird, but for conversational prose. And then I remembered, you know, the news, all the buzz about AI, the chatbots, how they can write anything, apparently, so I thought, just as an experiment, just to see, I’d try it (and I’m not usually one for fads, I like things tried and true, a good solid routine, but desperation, you know, it makes you do strange things), and I typed in a prompt, something like, “Write an email to an old friend reconnecting after retirement, express warmth and nostalgia, mention past shared experiences,” and it popped out. Instantly. A beautifully crafted email. Perfect grammar, perfectly phrased, just the right amount of sentimentality without being saccharine, and it even used some turns of phrase I *would* have used, back in the day (or maybe I just *thought* I would have, who even knows anymore what’s real and what’s just a memory of a memory). I sent it. And she replied! Brenda, I mean. With exclamation points and everything, saying she was so happy to hear from me, and that sounded just like me, she said, and I felt this strange mix, this really jarring internal conflict, because part of me was thrilled, ecstatic even, that the connection was made, that she remembered me fondly, that she wanted to catch up, but then there was this other part, this little nagging voice, a sort of metallic hum in my brain, that kept whispering, *it wasn’t you*. It was a machine. A fancy algorithm. And Brenda was responding to *that*, not to *me*. And it was a good feeling, but a hollow one, like eating a really delicious piece of cake that you know is made entirely of artificial sweeteners and food coloring. And now it’s become… the norm. Every email. Every message to an old colleague. Even the one I sent to my nephew last week about his college applications, about how proud I was (and I AM proud, really, genuinely, but the words just… they wouldn’t come out right, they felt clumsy, not encouraging enough, not inspiring enough), I fed it into the AI first, and it spits out something eloquent, something that sounds like the wise old uncle he probably thinks I am (or should be), and I send it, and I get these lovely replies, these warm messages back, and my social calendar is filling up, and I’m having Zoom calls and meeting for coffee, and everyone thinks I’m just this articulate, thoughtful, truly lovely person, and I AM that person, I *think* I am, somewhere deep down, but I can’t *articulate* it anymore, not without help, and it’s like I’m living this ghost life, this perfectly curated version of myself, and no one knows, no one has any idea that the real me, the person whose brain feels like a rusty old engine trying to turn over, is just sitting here, watching the screen, and pressing send. And the worst part, really, the absolute worst part (and I know this sounds dramatic, but it’s how it feels, an actual physical ache behind my sternum), is that I’m so afraid to stop. To just write something in my own stumbling, uncertain voice. Because what if they read it, these people who are so happy to reconnect with this… polished version of me, what if they read it and they think, oh, he’s lost it. He’s not as interesting as I remembered. Or worse, what if they just… don’t reply. What if they just ghost me, because the AI stopped being the intermediary, the translator for my fractured thoughts, and suddenly I’m just… me. A tired old man (and I’m not *that* old, not really, but it *feels* old, especially in my head, where the words just refuse to cooperate anymore), rambling and imprecise, and it’s a terrifying thought, truly, more terrifying than any presentation I ever had to give to a board of directors. So here I am, 2 AM, writing this (and yes, I typed it myself, no AI involved, which is why it’s probably a mess, just a jumbled stream of consciousness, but it’s *my* jumbled stream of consciousness, for better or worse), and the quiet hum of the laptop fan sounds like a judgment, and the streetlights outside cast these long, unforgiving shadows across the lawn, and I keep staring at my phone, wondering if I should try to draft an email, just one, to someone, *without* the AI, just to see what happens, but then the fear kicks in, that cold hard knot in my stomach, and I just… I can’t. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe. But probably not. And the cycle just keeps going, and I keep sending these perfectly worded lies, and I keep getting these genuinely warm responses, and I’m both relieved and utterly, completely alone.