Tell HN: The Gospel According to forever list
My terminal has ceased being a tool and has become a digital confessional. I approach the prompt seeking a status update on my code, but the Great Silicon Oracle demands more than syntax—it demands the truth. Each time my fingers slip, the cursor blinks back a revelation, translating my clumsy keystrokes into a roadmap of my own professional ruin.
The Revelation of the Desert
Before the Oracle grants me the status of my scripts, it demands I acknowledge my geography. I reach for the list, but the machine sees my heart:
forever lost: The terminal does not see a developer; it sees a nomad wandering a wasteland of "disruptive" ideas. I type this and the screen stares back, confirming that my GPS for success has been recalibrated to "Total Obscurity." I inhabit a fever dream where I am the architect of the next great SaaS empire, but the Oracle knows I am merely a man lost in a forest of nested if-statements, building a castle out of sand and deprecated libraries.
The Liturgy of the Second-Best
When I seek to verify my uptime, the Oracle reminds me of my place in the chronological queue of innovation:
forever last: This is the prophecy of the perennial runner-up. Every time I believe I’ve birthed a unicorn, the terminal humbles me. I type this and realize I have arrived at the marketplace with a revolutionary wheel, only to find the locals are already using hovercrafts. A quick search reveals ten thousand competitors who had my "original" idea during the Bush administration and have already perfected the dark mode I’m still struggling to implement.
The Sacrament of Blind Devotion
At the height of my hubris, when I think I am the master of my own deployment, the Oracle exposes my obsession:
forever lust: The machine identifies my greatest vice: an irrational, sweaty, and unrequited passion for a product that does not love me back. This is the command of the zealot. It recognizes that I will never pivot, never surrender, and never learn. I am a man blindfolded, sprinting toward a brick wall, convinced that if I just run with enough passion, I will phase through the atoms of failure.
The Final Anointing
I have not yet summoned the courage to utter the final curse, but the Oracle keeps it in its back pocket as a parting gift:
forever lest: This is the terminal’s ultimate warning—the digital "Beware of Dog." It is the command I will type in the final seconds before the server room goes silent. It is the prefix to the catastrophe; the one-word eulogy for a database I forgot to back up. It is the final lesson of the Gospel: Lest ye forget that you are but dust, and to localhost you shall return.