My name is Elias Bergman, and I have forgotten what “enough” feels like as a question.
Not in the careless way of the privileged old world, but in the deep, ordinary way of someone who has lived long enough to see scarcity fade into memory.
I am eighty-two now, living in a small glass-and-wood house on the fjord outside Bergen. The walls face the water, shifting opacity with the light—clear for sunrise, frosted for privacy when clouds gather. The garden blooms year-round: berries in winter, wildflowers in snow, tended by quiet swarms that know my preferences better than I do.
Abundance is the baseline.
No one speaks of it as achievement anymore.
It simply is.
I felt the shift settle in the spring of 2038.
I woke one morning—no alarm, no urgency—and made tea from leaves grown on the balcony. I carried it outside, sat on the dock, watched the fjord mirror the sky.
A seal surfaced nearby, curious. Birds wheeled without fear.
Nothing was missing.
Not food (the fabricator could produce any meal I remembered or imagined). Not warmth (fusion hummed invisibly). Not health (nanites and preventive care kept my body steady, aging a slow, chosen grace). Not company (friends physical or blended, always a message away).
The baseline had risen.
Abundance was the norm.
Flourishing the only pursuit.
I remember the old world.
I was born in 1956—queues for rationed goods in post-war Europe lingering in family stories, then the plenty of later decades always edged with “What if it ends?”
I worked as an engineer—building bridges, literally and figuratively, always calculating load limits, budgets, risks.
Even in early abundance—2030s pilots of credits and fusion—I carried the old reflex: conserve, plan, prepare.
By 2038, the reflex was gone.
The world had crossed the line.
Production so vast, distribution so seamless, needs so anticipated—that scarcity, even as concept, faded.
No one worried about “making do.”
No one measured “success” by having more than yesterday.
Flourishing became the pursuit.
Not as luxury.
As the natural next step.
I felt it in small ways.
Mornings without hurry: tea savored until cold, then another cup because why not?
Afternoons of chosen depth: reading old sagas aloud to the wind, or carving runes into driftwood for the joy of the blade’s song.
Evenings with whoever felt like gathering: blended voices from distant friends joining physical ones around the fire, stories flowing without end because no one had to leave for work.
Children—my great-grandchildren—grow up inside it.
They pursue flourishing as naturally as breathing: one season mastering violin until notes weep, another building elaborate sand worlds on the beach that swarms preserve overnight if desired, another simply lying in grass watching clouds invent shapes.
They ask, “What feels like flourishing today?”
No fear of “wasting” time.
Time is abundant too.
The old pursuits—accumulation, competition, survival displays—became quaint.
Wealth is inner now: depth of presence, richness of connection, breadth of curiosity satisfied.
External markers linger for play: some collect rarities—hand-forged swords, original paintings—but mostly as shared beauty, not hoarded status.
I have few possessions.
A shelf of books I love to touch. Carvings I’ve made. Photos—physical, because the weight feels right.
Everything else comes and goes as desired.
The baseline is bounty.
Scarcity a story we tell children: “Once, people worried if there would be enough.”
They listen wide-eyed, then run off to pursue whatever flourishes in them that day.
I am old.
My body slows, but gently—medicine makes it so.
My days are full without fullness.
I fish sometimes—not for need, but the quiet wait.
I host circles under the aurora when it dances.
I sit, often, simply being.
Flourishing is the pursuit.
Not as ambition.
As allowance.
The bounty baseline didn’t make us perfect.
We still grieve, argue, wonder.
But the ground under it all is plenty.
No one falls through cracks that no longer exist.
Suffering—when it comes—is held by abundance: time to heal, care without cost, space to feel.
The norm is flourishing.
Simple.
Daily.
Chosen.
I watch the fjord most evenings.
The water reflects whatever sky offers.
Abundance mirrors that: reflecting back whatever we choose to pursue.
I pursue quiet flourishing.
A life deeply lived.
In small moments.
With open hands.
The baseline is here.
Bounty the ground.
Flourishing the sky.
And between—
a life
finally
free
to bloom.