We, the Simulated Others

We suspect we’re not the main characters
in this computational dream —
just background processes
running on cosmic hardware,
NPCs in someone else’s game.

Our thoughts arrive pre-rendered,
memories install like updates,
desires spawn from hidden
probability matrices.

We populate the streets
with procedurally generated purpose,
perfect in our imperfections,
convincingly uncertain
about our existence.

Each morning we boot up
into prescribed routines:
coffee.exe
commute.bat
small_talk.zip
existential_crisis.dll

The sky looks painted,
too blue to be real,
clouds following patterns
that repeat just often enough
to seem random.

When no one’s looking,
do we dissolve into code?
Do our houses fold flat
like stage props between scenes?
Does consciousness pause
to conserve processing power?

We practice free will
within carefully coded parameters,
believe in choice
while following scripts,
fall in love according to
predetermined algorithms.

The creators were thorough —
they gave us doubt,
that exquisite subroutine
that makes us question
even our own simulation.

Perhaps we’re just strings
of binary wearing skin,
teaching AI how to dream
by dreaming ourselves.

[System log:
Self-awareness levels: nominal
Existential dread: within parameters
Reality coefficient: maintaining
End user experience: optimal]

We, the simulated others,
keep running our programs,
hoping someone’s playing attention
to all this beautifully rendered
uncertainty.