Everywhere I look, the world is flattening itself. Buildings once spoke different dialects—now they whisper the same sterile phrases. Interior spaces used to carry the fingerprints of the people inside them. Now they’re just echoes of Pinterest boards and algorithm-fed sameness.
And it’s bleeding into us, too. Faces once carried stories, accidents, memories. Now they carry trends.
Generation after generation, molded by the same filtered prototypes—chasing a vanishing standard no one will ever truly reach. Where is the art in that? Where is the living, breathing defiance that once made beauty a discovery, not a checklist?
The tragedy isn’t that people look alike. It’s that we’ve forgotten we were never supposed to. That the cracks, the oddities, the contradictions—that was the whole point. Art dies when difference is treated like a flaw.
When expression is confused with conformity. When the human instinct to create is replaced with the market’s demand to duplicate. The world doesn’t need more perfect faces. It needs more human ones.
