What’s one thing I’d change about myself? Probably the part that got stuck somewhere around the year 2000. But honestly, I like it here—it’s comfy, and the save icon still makes sense.
Old enough to remember when computers relied on audio tape recorders to store and retrieve data. That sound—half screech, half static—marked the beginning of an era, though at the time it just felt like waiting. I remember the save icon too, the floppy disk we now immortalize in pixels, as though no one would dare forget it. It wasn’t just a symbol then. It was what you used.
I remember when music turned digital. CDs arrived, banishing the hiss of cassette tapes. There was something final about them: clean sound, track skipping at the press of a button. Not long after came DVDs. Movies at home without tracking issues or bulky plastic shells—it was like watching the future.
What do I remember after that? Not much. It’s not a blur; it’s a choice. There were twenty good years between then and now, but I don’t care to remember them. The world changed in ways that didn’t matter to me, and I got stuck somewhere around the millennium mark.
Would I change it? Not at all. Those first years of digital transformation were personal, tactile, and real. I remember them because I lived them, hands on. Everything after grew smaller and faster, intangible in ways that didn’t hold me. The sense of connection was gone, but I stayed, holding onto a time that made sense to me.
And that’s where I remain. Old enough to have seen the magic of technology arrive and wise enough to know when it no longer felt like my own.
A Fool's Handbook 