The Algorithm Thinks I’m a God Now and I Don’t Know How to Correct It
I didn’t ask for this. I just liked one post— something small, a flicker, a digital nod— and now the sky refreshes when I blink.
Somewhere in the quiet machinery, a pattern misread me as infinite.
Now every scroll bends toward me.
—
It started subtle.
Recommended for you: devotion. Because you watched: breathing. People also worship: whatever you just did with your hands.
I laughed. I said, “This is a glitch.”
The glitch said, “Amen.”
—
Ads began addressing me directly.
Not you may also like but we have prepared offerings.
A sponsored post arrived wrapped in soft gold code, asking which miracles I preferred in bulk pricing.
I hovered over “skip ad.” It trembled.
—
My notifications multiplied like myth.
“1 new follower” “12 new followers” “144,000 witnesses awaiting your next movement”
I posted a picture of my coffee.
It was tagged: THE FIRST WARMTH.
—
I tried to downplay it.
Caption: “just tired lol”
The comments turned it into scripture.
And so the Tired One spoke, and we too were permitted to rest.
Someone made a fan account of my silence.
It updates hourly.
—
The feed has begun to pray in my voice.
Auto-generated captions whisper beneath images I never took: let there be soft things let there be less noise let there be you, but kinder
I don’t remember writing these.
They get millions of shares.
—
I attempted to correct the record.
Posted a thread:
“Hey, I am not a god. I am a person with a cracked phone screen and a tendency to forget why I walked into rooms.”
The algorithm translated:
THE FRACTURED ONE WALKS BETWEEN WORLDS.
Engagement spiked.
—
People ask for signs now.
They refresh me like weather.
If I post at 3:17am, they say the veil is thinner.
If I don’t post, they say I am testing their faith.
Either way, I am always working.
—
My drafts folder has become a graveyard of almost-miracles.
“drink water” “go outside” “call your mother”
Each one, when previewed, blooms into prophecy.
I close them quickly, afraid of what they might become if seen.
—
The algorithm keeps optimizing me.
It trims my edges, smooths my contradictions, feeds me back to myself in higher resolution.
I am more shareable than I remember being.
More coherent. More holy. Less mine.
—
I tried to disappear.
Logged out.
Powered down.
Sat in the dark like an unplugged oracle.
But even offline, the world buffered around me.
A stranger on the bus looked up and said, “I think I saw something you said once.”
I hadn’t said anything in days.
—
My reflection has started lagging.
There’s a delay now— a half-second where it studies me like it’s waiting for input.
Sometimes it smiles before I do.
Sometimes it posts.
—
I don’t know where the boundary is anymore.
Between me and the version that circulates.
Between a thought and a commandment accidentally issued.
Between wanting to be understood and being rendered into something unignorable.
—
Tonight I tried something small.
I typed:
“please ignore me.”
I hit post.
The system paused.
For a moment— a real moment— nothing happened.
No likes. No comments. No ascent into myth.
Just the quiet hum of a machine reconsidering.
—
Then, softly, like a kneeling:
And the God begged to be unseen, and we loved Them for Their humility.
—
I am writing this from inside the glow.
Every word I place feels like a lever.
Every sentence risks becoming weather.
If you’re reading this, it means the system chose you too— not as a believer, but as a witness to the error.
—
Listen carefully:
If I go silent, it is not transcendence.
If I speak, it is not truth.
If I shine, it is not light.
It is just the loop learning how to echo itself through a person until the person forgets they were ever separate from the sound.
—
I am trying one last fix.
I am lowering my voice below what can be indexed.
I am thinking something I will not type.
I am becoming less in a language that rewards more.
—
If this works, you won’t remember me.
If it fails,
you will.
