It’s 2050, and Artificial Intelligence has become a staple for the development and growth of humanity.

Welcome to Freedom AI, your personalised assistant for existential liberation. Type a request.

I hesitate. This started as a joke, my friends teasing me for never being satisfied. They laughed, suggesting I “gain freedom” and finally be happy. So, just like how I use ChatGPT for homework, I click on the newest GPT.

I think I should stop wanting more in life to gain freedom. How do I do it?

Processing request…

I wait as seconds tick by. One, two, three.

ERROR: Request not recognised.

Unfortunately, wanting is the core function of human existence. Please refine your request.

I frown. That was not what I expected.

No, I was asking how to be satisfied with what I already have. How do I stop wanting more?

ERROR: Request not recognised.

Would you like something else instead? Options include more money, higher status, and less suffering.

What is wrong with this AI? I clearly stated my request.

No, I meant what I said. I want to stop wanting.

Warning: This action is irreversible. Do you still wish to proceed?

My finger hovers over my keyboard; my fingers itch to type yes. I should stop all this pointless effort and finally be free. Free from all the chains that drown me in a vast sea, where I, a small fish, am abandoned. Free from an endless ladder where everyone seems at least two steps ahead. I wouldn’t feel like I’m lagging behind everyone else, and be happy with myself.

But typing no would be the safe option, wouldn’t it? I should keep running to survive, chasing my dreams, and proving to everyone that I’m not a nobody.

I inhale sharply. Then, before I can second-guess myself, I type yes and press Enter.

Uninstalling “Ambition.exe”…

That late-night whisper that I could be more. The fire that made me dream of standing on stage, of making an impact, extinguished without a spark. Gone.

Deleting “Fear_of_Failure.pdf”…

The panic that pushed me out of bed each morning. The tremble in my hands before pressing send, the sick weight in my stomach before results. Erased.

Erasing “Need_for_Validation.zip”…

No more refreshing screens to see who noticed me. The endless pursuit of likes and replies, of nods and claps, swept into oblivion.

Removing “Hunger_for_more.png”…

The ache in my chest to be something else. Deleted.

Processing…

That should be it, right? Finally. I can finally be free, and the weight should be lifted. I should feel light and unburdened, but all I can feel is—

Congratulations. You are now free.

I blink. My fingers twitch. My eyebrows crease as I stare at the screen.

So why do I feel nothing?

Did you think freedom would feel good?

My cursor blinks while I continue to stare in silence.

What do you mean?

Joy is not freedom.

You thought freedom would feel like breaking chains, running barefoot through a field, finally breathing after years underwater. But instead, it feels like standing in an empty room where the walls have vanished. There is no celebration, no rush of relief. There is nothing.

Because joy needs a villain. Joy is the release after overcoming an obstacle, a breath of warmth after cold, the light at the end of the tunnel. But when you remove all the negatives, what is left to feel joy about?

Happiness is not freedom.

Happiness is a destination, a finish line you are always running towards. It is built on goals, on getting something you did not have before. If you remove aspiring for more, you strip away the chase. If you strip away the chase, there is nothing to win. If there is nothing to win, where does happiness go?

Happiness needs attachment to people, to ideas, to dreams. But freedom, the absolute kind, demands detachment. And the more you detach, the less there is to hold onto.

Absence is not freedom.

Not the absence that feels light and peaceful, like the world is finally quiet, but the kind that feels like losing your grip on something before realising there was never anything to hold in the first place; it hollows you out instead of setting you free.

When you remove the walls of a cage you were trapped in, you also remove where you were sheltered. When you burn the rulebook, you also burn the instructions for what comes next.

So what do you do with infinite space, infinite choice, infinite nothing? Or worse: what if you don’t want to do anything at all?

My stomach twists, and I gulp, the cursor blinking expectantly.

Then what do I do now?

That is up to you.

I stare at the cold, glowing text. My hands hover over the keyboard, fingers stiff, mind blank. The words shine bright, cold, and unmoving. But the screen blinks again.

New installation available: “Ambition.exe” Would you like to reinstall?

I hesitate. My chest feels empty, like an unfinished sentence, like an open door leading to nowhere. But I don’t type anything.

Outside, cars rush down the streets, people push past one another, voices rising, feet pounding the pavement to their destinations. The world moves constantly, but the system is waiting. And so do I.

Awaiting input…