I am going a bit deaf and I am hoping that technology is going

Hear the words of Alexander Armstrong, who speaks with humility and hope: “I am going a bit deaf and I am hoping that technology is going to come on leaps and bounds and that one day I will hear better.” In these words we find not despair, but faith—the faith that human ingenuity can restore what time and frailty have begun to take away. It is the cry of one who feels the shadows of silence encroaching, yet who lifts his eyes toward the promise of progress, trusting that the mind of man, allied with the strength of invention, can rekindle the music of the world.

At the heart of this saying lies the noble struggle between human weakness and human creation. The body falters—the eyes grow dim, the joints stiffen, the ears lose their clarity. Yet mankind is not content to surrender to decay. Instead, through the fire of discovery, we fashion tools to heal, to replace, to enhance. Where nature withdraws, technology advances. Armstrong places his hope here, in the unyielding march of invention, that though his ears fail him, he may one day hear again with fullness and joy.

This faith is not unfounded. History abounds with testimonies of lives restored through ingenuity. Once, blindness was an eternal prison, until men devised glasses, lenses, and surgeries to bring back the light. Once, the lame could not walk, until crutches, prosthetics, and even mechanical limbs gave them movement again. Once, silence claimed all who went deaf, until the hearing aid and the cochlear implant brought voices and music back into their world. In each case, technology did not erase suffering entirely, but it leapt forward, breaking barriers that once seemed immovable.

Consider the story of Beethoven, that immortal composer. His deafness descended slowly, stealing away the very sense upon which his art relied. And yet, through inner resolve, he continued to compose symphonies that shook the heavens. Today, with devices unknown in his time, a man like Beethoven might have heard again. Armstrong’s hope springs from this truth: that what once was impossible can become possible, if the spirit of innovation continues to stride boldly forward.

Yet the quote speaks not only to the promise of technology, but to the courage of acceptance. Armstrong does not hide his weakness, nor does he deny it. Instead, he acknowledges it with honesty, and in so doing, he embodies the dignity of one who knows that vulnerability is not defeat. His faith in progress is not passive resignation, but an active hope that science and art together can serve humanity’s deepest needs. Such hope is itself a form of strength, a refusal to let silence triumph without a fight.

The lesson, O seekers, is clear: cherish the advances of technology, not as luxuries but as miracles of human will. Do not take lightly the gifts of hearing, sight, movement, and speech, for they are fragile. And when they begin to fade, do not despair, for mankind has within it the power to rebuild what is broken. Place trust in progress, but also nurture gratitude for the senses and gifts you hold today, for they too are fleeting and precious.

Practical counsel is this: guard your health with care, yet prepare your spirit to embrace the tools that may aid you when weakness arrives. Celebrate the inventors, the scientists, the healers, for their work may one day touch you or those you love. And above all, cultivate hope, for it is hope that sustains the weary until help arrives.

So let Armstrong’s words endure as both confession and prophecy: “I am going a bit deaf, but I hope that technology will help me hear better.” In them we find the eternal rhythm of humanity—frailty met by faith, decline answered by discovery. Let us hold fast to this hope, and labor so that each leap of progress brings light, sound, and life to all who await its touch.