Think of it as Yoga for the brain, we are going to stretch a bit.
If Man Is Still Alive – Inspired by “In the Year 2525″
There’s an old song, “In the Year 2525,” that tried to guess where humanity would end up. Sweet folks back then expected we’d limp along for thousands of years before getting ourselves into trouble.
They underestimated our talent for acceleration.
So let’s update the thing. Not the melody—just the timeline. Because the way we’re going, you don’t need 2525.
You barely need next Tuesday.
In the year 2035
You won’t have to tell the truth or lie.
Your phone, your fridge, and the headphones you forgot were listening will do the remembering for you.
And the pill you take won’t just fix your blood pressure—
it’ll manage your mood, your focus, your productivity,
and maybe nudge your opinions a few inches in the direction someone paid for.
It’s progress, they say.
Though progress starts feeling a lot like parenting by algorithm.
In the year 2045
You won’t need teeth or eyes quite the same way.
Your meals will come blended, printed, or shipped as powders you rehydrate like astronauts.
Every person you talk to, date, fight with, cheat on, or marry
will have some kind of augmented face anyway,
so eyesight becomes optional in the way handwriting already has.
We used to say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Now beauty is in the filter of the device.
In the year 2055
Your arms will hang a little limper.
Not because we’ve evolved—just because we outsourced everything.
The machines don’t just carry the load; they decide which load needs carrying.
Your legs? Decorative.
Your car, home, and office all move you without being asked.
You’re a passenger in the very life you were once supposed to steer.
Funny thing about convenience—
eventually it does the living for you.
In the year 2065
Family becomes something you configure.
Pick a son, pick a daughter, pick temperament, allergies, hair color.
You’ll scroll your way through the genetic menu the way you shop for phones now.
The long glass tube of the old song becomes a sterile lab in an office park.
Parents start sounding more like designers than guardians.
When everything is customizable, nothing feels sacred,
and humans start treating children like software updates.
In the year 2075
If God’s dropping by, He’d better hurry.
Because He may look around and say,
“Good grief, I leave for five minutes and you people start rewriting the species.”
We keep waiting for Judgment Day while living like we’re immune to consequences.
But judgment doesn’t need trumpets.
It shows up disguised as outcomes.
In the year 2085
If God shakes His mighty head,
it won’t be out of anger—it’ll be confusion.
We’ve built more tools in 50 years than the previous 10,000 combined,
and used most of them to avoid looking at ourselves.
He may be pleased.
He may be disappointed.
Or He may decide the experiment needs a restart.
Even God likes a clean slate sometimes.
In the year 2095
We wonder if man will still be alive.
Not extinct, maybe—
just exhausted, digitized, and slowly merging
with the very systems that were built to serve us.
We took everything from the earth, the oceans, the air,
and gave back mostly plastic and good intentions.
We squeezed the planet like it was an orange
and forgot to plant another tree.
And after all of it
Ten thousand years might pass,
or ten hundred, or ten dozen—
time doesn’t care what we prefer.
Man will cry a billion tears trying to figure out
what he was chasing in the first place.
Maybe our reign ends not with fire or ice,
but with a soft, sleepy surrender
to comfort, convenience, and the quiet hum of the machines
that learned to live for us.
And somewhere, far away in the eternal night,
a small point of starlight winks back—
a reminder that yesterday and tomorrow
aren’t as far apart as we pretend.
If there’s a moral here, it’s this:
Humanity has always been racing into the future eyes-closed and heart-open,
hoping the road stays smooth.
But the future doesn’t arrive in centuries.
It arrives in habits.
And the habits we build today
decide which version of the future
gets to sing the last verse.
If we want to rewrite the song,
we’d better start before the chorus repeats.
