The Death Of Autopilot

Autopilot is the lie that movement is enough. That because the body is carried from bed to street to work to screen, a life is being lived. But autopilot is not life—it is simulation. It is a program stitched onto the flesh, repeating tasks the soul never chose.

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The body is not a machine that runs scripts. It is a temple of hunger, rhythm, heat, and storm. When placed on autopilot, that temple is desecrated. Its breath is cut shallow. Its pulse is numbed by repetition. Its instincts are drowned under the noise of schedules and screens.

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Autopilot promises efficiency, but the price is presence. And when presence is gone, collapse is certain. The heart cracks not only from age, but from years of being ignored. Muscles rot not only from stillness, but from being used as tools instead of instruments of joy. The spirit itself grows brittle under the weight of a borrowed rhythm.

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To live on autopilot is to walk closer to death with every step, not because time is short, but because the body has been denied its truth. You can die while still breathing, if every breath is shallow and unchosen.

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The only revolt is to seize back the controls. To tear off the program and return to manual flight. To move, to taste, to sweat, to stretch, to fuck, to pray—as though every moment is the first and last. Presence is the antidote. Autopilot is the poison.