Will We Know What Happened?

I wrote something yesterday because I had some extra gas in the tank. I should have taken that and kept roaring, but progress comes incrementally. That can be a saying. But not really. Because progress can come in great leaps and bounds, as well. Depends. Relative. Yada yada. We move on.


I was thinking about the writing "practice" I've been working on and thought it was funny that I'd be figuring this out (if you can call it that) when AI bots are coming out, when artificial intelligence will be able to write blog posts for you, or stories.


But they ain't got no soul. The AI bots I mean. Or do they? Sentient? Perhaps. Or you can use the sludge they produce and edit it for a post or story. Ugh. Still feels skeezy. Or skeevy. Or both. Either word will work. But I think until they get it perfected one will be able to tell if a real person wrote something or not. Or maybe they won't. Maybe everything will encroach us and take over our mind and as we sit there in the slime that keeps us from overheating, the wires burrowing through our guts and skin, taking hold, infiltrating, until the last moment when we're looking at the sky. Then all goes blank. And like that scene in Robocop (the original) where vision comes back, CRT lines going across, we look around through our new existence. And think.


Or will we? Will we know what happened? The world? The art? The love? The hate?


Something to think about. Happy Wednesday.




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