figures of nature, with lines of distinction, and shades of seasons.
in that forest of trees, none are alike, yet each reflects a type. None are perfect, each is flawed in some way, like a human being...
just as our figures appear as less than desirable when we look in the mirror.
it is this humanity that sets us apart as creators of literature. we are destined not to live up to the laws of computer-generated logic, or artificial intelligence...
which is a good thing. we will never be the robotic mind because we have a soul, we have the DNA of a creator.
so, everything that we compose, everything that we write, cannot be adequately predicted by AI. Calculations can only give us soul-less alternatives based of a machine-logic construct.
what robotic intelligence will ever be able to express love like one who has been tested by heartache...or feel the impending crossover from this life to the next?
unfortunately, the "new toy" is out of the box, and it seems like everybody wants to play the game. like the infantile Trash-80 computer was in the 70's, it is trendy, we can do some things with it...but it cannot give us insight into the feelings of our old girlfriend, or our boss, or the man who collects our garbage on Monday mornings.
it is imperative that we qualify the human experience in the words that only a human would write...with imperfections that only a human could relate to. our audiences are the hearts, minds, and souls of human beings. no machine will ever be able to feel what we feel; they will only be able to synthesize, postulate, or copy what has already been written.
writing from the heart, from the soul, will always be more valuable than what is artificially produced. none of us, who value humanity, should ever compromise those feelings released into words with artificially developed fodder.
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