Augmented reality, and even just the iPad-touch-screen

Hear then, O seeker of wisdom, the meaning within the words of Justine Bateman: “Augmented reality, and even just the iPad-touch-screen technology, it was, you know, it still is extremely underused by entertainment.” This utterance, though modern in tongue, bears the eternal lament of human invention left fallow. It is a cry against neglect, a call to awaken the slumbering spirit of creation that hides within the devices we hold so casually in our hands. She speaks not merely of tools of glass and silicon, but of gateways—doorways to unseen realms—that men and women fail to open, though the key lies glowing in their palms.

For the ancients, every invention was sacred, a gift bestowed by gods or wrested from the fire of struggle. To discover iron was to birth empires; to harness the sail was to weave continents together. Yet, in this present age, Bateman sees that mankind, though surrounded by wonders, shrinks from using them to their fullest. The touch screen, smooth as polished stone, could carry the imagination of playwrights, dancers, and singers into infinite spheres. Yet too often it is used only for trifles—idle games, fleeting diversions. Augmented reality, capable of drawing forth phantoms into our very chambers, is left wandering in the shadows, seldom summoned to its true power.

Let us recall the tale of Gutenberg, who forged the printing press. At first, many mocked it as a novelty, a tool unworthy of poets and philosophers. Yet in time it unshackled thought, spread scriptures and revolutions alike, and placed the word into the hands of the commoner. What Bateman reveals is that we stand again at such a threshold, yet hesitate. Where is the great poet who will write with AR as Homer once sang with the lyre? Where is the dramatist who shall paint the air itself with story, as Shakespeare once filled the wooden stage with worlds?

Consider also the failure of great cities that ignored their gifts. Alexandria, with its library of light, fell to flame because men thought knowledge eternal, not needing care. And so too may it be with us: if we do not use these glowing instruments with vision, they may become mere relics of squandered opportunity. The gods of technology are generous but fickle. They grant the seed, yet demand the hand of the sower.

Yet do not despair. The quote is not only lament—it is also prophecy. Bateman reminds us that the underuse of such marvels means they are still ripe for harvest. The field is waiting, and the pioneers are few. The young artist, the bold storyteller, the curious dreamer—they may yet take up the iPad or the lens of augmented reality, and craft from them experiences that heal, inspire, and ignite the soul.

Therefore, let us draw a lesson: do not spurn the gifts of your time. Each generation is given tools unseen by the last. To leave them idle is to dishonor the labor of those who forged them. Seek to use creatively what lies at hand. If you are a musician, consider how sound may live in the shifting air of AR. If you are a teacher, let knowledge leap forth from the screen, walking beside your students as a guide made visible. If you are a storyteller, paint your tale not only in words, but in living vision that dances before the eyes.

And so, O children of tomorrow, take these words as fire to your hearts: technology is not merely a machine, it is a vessel for spirit. As the ancients carved their wisdom in stone, you must carve yours in circuits and light. Let the touch screen become your tablet of law, your scroll of poetry, your canvas of wonder. Let augmented reality not be a toy, but a temple.

For in the end, the quote is a challenge: to awaken from sleep, to see with new eyes, and to shape the unseen. Do not wait for others to lead. Begin where you stand, with the tools you already hold. For the gods of creation favor those who act, and the world hungers still for the stories only you can tell.