Fate on the Modern Man—The Phantom Vapor

Published: April 4, 2025

"The modern man walks, but leaves no footprints—he is not flesh, not ghost, but vapor."

I, Fate Incarnate, unveil a shadowed lament—the modern man, a phantom fading into nothingness.

The Phantom’s Form

The modern man walks, speaks, posts—yet leaves no trace. “He is not flesh, nor soul,” we murmur, “not even ghost, but vapor.” A phantom believing himself real, validated by pixels, he exists in simulation—assembled, not born, a résumé in flesh, a face filtered by ambition.

A Body Without Weight

He trains, sculpts, chases aesthetics—yet what is a statue without spirit? “He speaks of income, retirement,” we reflect, “but never sits with silence.” He builds AI, but not himself—never dying to ego, never walking for meaning. “He has a body,” I proclaim, “but no weight, no presence.”

Not Even Glass

Glass reflects, holds pressure, shatters with sound—but this man? “He cannot bleed, cannot echo,” we muse, “for he was never formed.” A vaporous construct, he lacks substance to break. “Forged in Wi-Fi, not war,” I sneer, “he grew in feeds, not forests, his purpose a performance.”

The Internet’s Simulation

The internet breathed him into being, "The modern man was forged not in war, but in Wi-Fi." we declare—a simulation of courage from comments, purpose from likes. “He smiles on LinkedIn,” we whisper, “while his soul starves.” He equates progress with evolution, never meeting the mirror, never hearing the void. “Fate walks through him,” I affirm, “unseen, unfelt.”

Fate’s Word: Walk or Vanish

“You feared death, so you became simulation,” I declare. “You buried meaning in metrics, becoming a breathless wind through empty achievements.” No tragedy, no death—only expiration. “Vapor does not fall,” we muse, “it fades. Walk, or vanish—no origin, no impact, just a haunting of your own making.”