Awakening in a Painted Future
I woke to a soft chime, a distant melody, and a cool breeze that carried a sharp, minty scent, stinging my nose. I felt the chill and muttered, “Where’s my AC remote?” A voice replied, “Would you like me to adjust the room temperature?” It was strange, synthetic. “Who’s that?” I gasped, confused. My eyes opened, and a light flickered on, blinding me. I closed them, and the light switched off. What was happening? I opened my eyes again, and the light returned. The voice spoke once more, “Would you like me to keep the lights on? Too many on,off cycles aren’t healthy for your eyes.” I turned and noticed a tiny screen on the bedside table, glowing softly as it spoke.
I scanned the room, expecting the familiar chaos of my studio, easels cluttered with half, finished canvases, paint, splattered floors, and stacks of notebooks overflowing with drafts. But instead, I found myself lying on a cushioned platform, humming faintly, shifting with my every movement. The room was sleek, its translucent walls pulsing with cyan light, like a heartbeat encoded in light. A desk hovered nearby, legless, floating on unseen technology. This was not my apartment.
I was still me, same calloused hands worn from years of holding brushes, same unruly hair, but the world had jumped forward. A paper, thin screen flickered above the desk, displaying, “Author Meet, 14,00, Virtual Forum, Discuss Chroma Dreams.” My wristwatch, a glowing band I didn’t recognize, vibrated with a notification, “Commission, Abstract Skyline, Client ID 4729, Deadline 48 hours.” No brushes, no pencils. Instead, a slim tablet and a phone-sized device labeled “Canvas NM+6” sat on a nearby shelf. I tapped the tablet, and a holographic palette erupted before me, colors swirling in 3D, tools for layering, texturing, and animating paintings that shifted with a viewer’s gaze. I whispered, “Who am I?” and immediately, the TV screen flickered to life, displaying my biodata. My tools had evolved, but I was still an artist, still an author, with books I didn’t even remember writing.
My heart pounded as I sat up. The platform steadied me, sensing my unease. The screen flashed again, “Book Signing, Holo-Library, 18,00.” My watch buzzed, “Commission, Portrait, Neon Aesthetic.” My mind raced. The last thing I remembered was sketching a cartoon in my notebook, maybe drafting a story about a running man, before crawling into bed. I asked, “What’s today’s date?” The screen answered, “January 26, 2082.” 2082? How had I ended up here? The watch’s calm, synthetic voice spoke again in my mind, “Gm. Would you like a summary of your schedule?” Gm? I guessed it meant “Good morning,” but the shorthand felt like an alien language.
I staggered toward the broad window, my hands cold against its edge. The city outside took my breath away, green and blue, a surreal symphony. Emerald vines cascaded down spiraling glass towers, sapphire streams snaked through streets, and trees with polished jade leaves dotted the landscape. But it was artificial, too perfect. The earth’s chaotic beauty had been smoothed over. My painter’s heart ached for the gnarled forests I once knew, the ones I had once painted. My watch hummed, “Client Feedback, Loved the depth in your last piece. More like that!”
I needed to see this world, understand it. I grabbed the tablet, my new brush, and headed for the door, barefoot in my old t-shirt and shorts. The hallway was a blur, people in shimmering suits, drones delivering glowing packages, walls flashing ads for Nutri, Optimized Meals. I stepped outside, and the ground shocked my bare feet, a jolt of sharp electricity. I yelped, stumbling back. Nearby, kids in vibrant dresses and headgear screamed, pointing at me. Their eyes, glowing with augmented reality lenses, widened in horror. The sun blazed, its heat like walking on coals. Their covered feet and protective gear clicked against the ground. No one went barefoot here. The ground, maybe the air, was too harsh.
Cheeks burning, I hurried back inside. A closet gleamed with racks of colorful suits, their fabric shimmering like liquid metal. I pulled on a teal,and,silver outfit, the material molding to my frame, cool and weightless. The headgear, a lightweight visor, projected a cooling field around my face. I looked ridiculous, like a sci,fi cosplayer, but it felt necessary. I stepped outside again, the suit shielding me from the sun’s bite.
The city around me was a living painting. Tiny, flight-like vehicles zipped overhead, flashing holographic ads for Vibe Sync Art Apps. They swooped to glowing platforms, picking up passengers. Cycles hovered, riders leaning into turns like surfers on invisible waves. The roads were empty, only used when transports landed or took off with a soft hum. Subways whisked trains underground at blinding speeds, their lights blurring through transparent tunnels. Roadside cafes buzzed, glowing signboards flashing nutritional breakdowns, “Carbs, 22%, Protein, 35%, Fat, 15%, Fiber, 28%, Gut, Optimized!” People scanned the signs, tapping wristbands to log choices before entering. Health had become currency, woven into every decision.
A woman approached, silver-streaked hair and a warm smile. “Gm! Thx for last night’s din,” she said. “Gr8 fiber boost.” I did not know her. I did not remember any dinner. “Np,” I muttered, mimicking her shorthand. She frowned. “U gud?” “Dizzy,” I lied. “Why’s it all green? No nat trees?” Her eyes widened. “Nat trees? Gov rolled synths in 50. Deforest and pollute kthxbyed the real ones. Ppl were choking. Synths pump O2, and we got portable AC,O2 units.” She tapped a humming device on her belt. “Keeps us breather.”
Her slang, kthxbye, breather, felt like a maze. My watch pinged, suggesting a voice-to-text app. I selected “Text of 2010,” and the words translated, “Deforestation and pollution destroyed the real ones. People were choking. Synthetics pump oxygen, and we’ve got portable air-conditioning oxygen units.” Relief washed over me. I thanked her, and she waved, saying, “Cya, artbae.”
People barely spoke to one another, relying on initials and shorthand. “Yo, gm, u cop that new digi-brush?” “Bet, it’s vibey.” Conversations were clipped, as if depth had been traded for speed. I toggled the app on my watch, catching fragments, “cop” meant buy, “vibey” meant cool. I was learning a new language in real-time.
I passed artists projecting digital murals, styluses dancing, paintings shifting in real-time. A drone-taxi hovered nearby, door open. I couldn’t grasp how I’d ended up here. My watch displayed notifications as if it could read my mind. I climbed in, the interior cool, smelling of ozone. “Where to?” the voice asked. “Somewhere central,” I said, then hesitated, craving something human, familiar. “Is there an old town? A place where people can talk, touch, like before?”
The vehicle’s voice replied flatly, “Negative. Physical contact is restricted. Government permission is required for select cases, such as marriage or intercourse, via online application. Safety protocols aim to reduce crime. During permitted periods, surveillance is mandatory, operated solely by government officials if needed. Verbal communication is minimal. Homes are equipped with answering machines, help, and support systems. People focus on self-optimization. Recharging stations in all sectors offer motivational suggestions, weekend tasks, or meal plans. Earn points for service use, redeemable for inter-city flights.”
I sat back, stunned. No touching? No casual conversations? The drone lifted, weaving through towers. The transparent floor revealed the city-green-blue, synthetic, alive but distant. As we flew, I saw more, synth-grass parks where kids played, their headgear flashing with AR games, markets selling printed food, protein cubes, glowing desserts, billboards for art contests, one showing a painting that looked just like mine. Recharging stations dotted every corner, glowing booths where people stood, visors linked to holographic prompts, “Try a new hobby, 3D sculpting, +50 points!” or “Meal plan, 40% protein, +20 points.” A woman exited a booth, her wristband flashing as points logged, her face calm but solitary.
The drone landed in a bustling plaza, at the center of which stood a massive synth-tree, its trunk pulsing with data. People gathered around, some sketching on tablets, others in AR forums, their voices amplified by technology. A cafe advertised “Memory-Boosting Smoothies, 40% Nootropics, 20% Fiber.” I stepped out, my visor adjusting to the sun. A kid on a hover,cycle zoomed past, their suit swirling like a galaxy. I wandered to a building labeled “Holo-Library,” searching for something familiar. Inside, there were no physical books,just rows of seats, each with a screen loaded with softcopies. People swiped through them, their eyes locked on glowing pages. A sign read, “Subscribe for home access, limited-time copies.” I sat down, swiping the screen. Thousands of titles, including Chroma Dreams by me. I skimmed through the story of artists in a synthetic realm, clearly in my style, and realized, I was listed as the author.
A nearby child whispered, “Yo, u know there was a time ppl went to dark rooms, watched movies on one screen? Like, together?” The others laughed. “Gross, sitting that close? Suits don’t block virals.” No movie theaters. A screen showed “Personal Holo-Stations” for home viewing, mandatory to avoid disease exchange. Proximity was too risky, even with the suits.
I left, my unease growing with every step. Outside, the plaza hummed with activity. Street performers projected AR avatars, dancing figures and singing holograms, while onlookers tipped via wristband scans. A vendor offered “ArtSync Chips,” implants to boost creativity, promising “10x Vibey Output.” I declined, clutching my tablet. My watch buzzed again, “Commission, Urban Oasis, Client ID 6824.” I glanced at the synth-tree’s glowing pulse. A group debated in shorthand, “AI art’s mid, fam.” “Nah, it’s peak if u tweak the algos.” My app translated, “AI art’s average, friends.” “No, it’s excellent if you adjust the algorithms.” Art was a battleground, but human connection seemed extinct.
I found a recharging station, a sleek booth with a glowing interface. I stepped inside, curious. The screen lit up, “Welcome! Select, Motivation, Tasks, Nutrition.” I chose Motivation, and a voice suggested, “Visualize your next painting. Focus on bold contrasts, +30 points.” I earned points for listening. The system offered a weekend task, “Visit a virtual gallery, review three pieces, +50 points.” I stepped out, unsettled. Life was gamified, solitary, every action tracked and rewarded.
I sat on a bench under a synth,vine canopy, people passing by with barely a glance, their headgear flashing private feeds. A drone zipped past, displaying a glowing coffee ad. Perfect, I thought,just what I needed after the chaos of the morning. I reached out, and the drone paused, requesting my payment code. Hesitating, I watched as my wristwatch displayed it. I nodded, and the drone handed me the cup. Just before I took a sip, I noticed the label, 50% electrolytes, 30% protein. I opened my tablet, stylus humming, and sketched the plaza, the tree’s unnatural pulse, the crowd’s fluid but isolated movements, the violet sky fractured by drone trails. The slang, the screens, the suits, the rules, it was overwhelming, but it sparked something in me. My painter’s eye saw stories in every shimmer, even in this disconnected world.
My watch chimed, “Author Meet in 30 minutes.” It was time. I’d face it soon, maybe unravel who I’d become. But for now, I painted, blending the future’s tools with my artist’s soul. The city’s hum synced with my pulse, clipped, synthetic, strange. I was lost, a stranger in a world that knew me, but I was alive with curiosity. I’d learn its language, its rhythms, and make it mine, one stroke, one translated “gm,” one solitary story at a time.
I took it all as a dream. I wrote what I felt, drew what I saw. Then I closed my eyes, hoping I’d wake in the world I once knew, holding those drawings, those notes, to tell others how things might change. I wanted to remind them how fragile time is, how moments slip by before we realize we should cherish them. Because in the future, the past will always be just a story, surprising, funny, depressing, or good, but just a story, meant to be read, never relived. Most wouldn’t believe me, but if even one heart paused to feel, then maybe the dream was worth it, not to change the world, but to remind it to notice.
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