If I were God, I wouldn’t seize power as a privilege but treat it as a debt: a vital loan to repay with every single breath. I would give you the gift of empathy, not in installments or premium version, but plant it within, so you feel another’s heart like a drum in your own chest. I would tear away the veil of illusion, revealing the hidden cost of every distracted click. I would show you that “free” is the most expensive word when you’re the one paying for it. I would reactivate dormant senses: the ear to catch silence, the eye to embrace the horizon, the nose to rediscover the scent of printed pages. No more filters—only the pure framing of reality. I would return time to you, not as a digital unit, but let it flow dense, rich with boredom and discovery—because it is in the void that ideas are born and in waiting that desire flourishes. I would extinguish the algorithm’s torches that guide you by blinkers, leaving you only one small light: that of your own curiosity. I would challenge you to get lost in places without signal, where thumbs don’t scroll and notifications don’t exist—where the first message you read is your own heartbeat. And for every quarrel sown by suspicion, I would give you back an embrace. For every shout at an avatar, I would give you the weight of the human voice. I would make you write contracts with yourselves: no more incomprehensible clauses, only true commitments—to acknowledge mistakes, celebrate chaos, and mend distance with a spontaneous “I’m sorry.” I wouldn’t grant freedom; I would return it to you. Not as an object to possess, but as air we breathe together—free to go, free to return. And when you realize you already have it within, you will not invoke me as a distant God but look into each other’s eyes and smile: “It will be surprising to discover that freedom is us.”