I used to believe that a couple of engineers could change the world if they just moved fast enough, thought deeply enough, cared enough.
But after HoloLens, I learned that some dreams don't fit inside a garage.
AR glasses aren't an app—they're a universe.
You need cameras, displays, batteries, SLAM algorithms, coordinate math, operating systems, frameworks, new interaction paradigms. You need artists, engineers, designers, researchers—hundreds of them—all bending toward one fragile, shimmering goal: to make reality itself editable.
At times I felt like a tiny bolt in a gigantic boat. But maybe that's what building reality demands—humility before complexity.
Some visions can't be willed into existence by speed alone. They need a collective nervous system. That realization didn't dim my fascination though. If anything, it deepened it. Because I see now that AR isn't just a device—it's a bridge.
More and more, consciousness is dispersing into the digital realm—our thoughts, our memories, our gestures captured and translated into pixels and data streams. We need something that grounds us between these worlds: a bridge for those who want to stay rooted in the physical, and those who want to roam freely in the digital.
Maybe AR glasses are just the first organ of that bridge—the eye learning to see both realms at once. And once AR succeeds—and I have no doubt it will—I don't think it's the end form factor. It's just the beginning of perception: the dawn of a new sensory system that fuses cognition and computation.
I want to understand that system deeply—not only how light passes through glass and lens, but how perception passes through the mind.
The brain, the eye, and how digital information can manifest into visual artifacts—how data becomes color, how code becomes feeling, how something unreal can still move us.
That invisible space—where attention, vision, and information meet—feels like the axis my curiosity spins around. It's where I keep returning, tracing the boundary between what we see and what we are.