The Making of a Luddite

As soon as a new update is released my computer automatically seeks it out and uploads the change. So seamless. I am not even involved—although the question did pop up on my screen, "Do you want to automatically have items updated.?"

I answered yes, but upon reflection perhaps I handed over what little autonomy I possess regarding my computer. Now—in a stealth like manner, probably when I am away, the computer simply adds features.

If I hadn't been so precipitous I could remain the captain. Perhaps I don't want those new graphics or lined paper or smiling faces. Maybe I even enjoy the occasional break down. It reminds me that we all break down at some point.

I can't walk as fast—and when I climb a mountain I'm wary of the edges. I used to love to go close to the rim and stare down. Now I enjoy a decent distance.

On my last update I discovered, too late, that my colorful file labels disappeared. Now a discreet colored dot appears next to the file. I know it looks less cluttered, less like the neon lights of the city, less like the boardwalk—my desktop now looks adult. I miss the glitter.

Of course if I don't keep up with every new update I become the wooly mammoth trudging in a primordial forest while everyone else is advancing toward computer nirvana. But that won't last because the release of another update hovers in the background.

And that means....