Many people remember Usain Bolt for the incredible speed with which he could run. Many of us watch Olympic race events with sheer wonder at how fast humans can be. But if we’re really looking at covering distance quickly, an average person on a bicycle might outpace even the fastest runner. Yes, a bike is a completely different mode of movement, but that’s the point: raw speed isn’t the whole story. We celebrate Usain Bolt not just for how fast he is but for his mastery of running—his training, technique, and the sheer determination it takes to be the best in his domain. That’s what captivates us.
Then again, we also cheer on cyclists in competitions—riders who tackle very uneven and sometimes dangerous terrain with breathtaking skill and control. They do things on a bike that most of us can’t even fathom. And even they’re not the fastest people on wheels; some folks prefer watching a Formula One driver who pushes their car and their own nerve to the absolute limit. Each of these feats has its own appeal, but we don’t celebrate them just for speed. We celebrate the mastery, the human skill behind it all.
The same pattern appears in the world of art. There was a time when an artist’s ability to replicate reality precisely—capturing every muscle curve and detail—was the pinnacle of artistic achievement. These days, if you excel at lifelike drawings, you might end up working on a street corner, hoping passersby will appreciate your talent enough to toss a few coins your way. The skill is still impressive, but the broader public probably won’t proclaim you the “greatest artist” anymore, because a camera in any random phone can snap an even more accurate image with no fuss at all.
Yet painting or sketching continues to be a vibrant art form—not because it perfectly mirrors reality, but because of the wild new directions artists can take. We marvel at the unusual strokes, the weird use of color, the pure emotion thrown onto a canvas, like we see in Van Gogh or modern abstract pieces. Meanwhile, photography itself has become its own kind of art, not just about high-end cameras, but about the photographer’s eye—the vision that makes us pause and see the world in a fresh way. Technology keeps changing how we define “greatness” in art, shifting our focus from mere technical perfection to imagination, interpretation, and perspective.
ChatGPT—or large language models in general—are another big leap forward in technology. They can churn out human-like language, often mimicking styles so closely that it’s hard to tell it’s computer-generated. Sure, for a trained eye, some patterns might still pop out, but it’s only a matter of time before those imperfections vanish. And that raises the question: what does this mean for writing?
Some people worry AI usage might strip away authenticity, turning writing into a neatly packaged commodity. Others might argue it’s simply a new tool that democratizes expression—letting those who struggle with words finally shape their thoughts more effectively. Either way, it’s not just about the AI itself, but how we humans choose to use it. It’s like a photographer picking the perfect angle: the magic lies in the decisions made by the person behind the camera—or in this case, behind the keyboard.
I often find it curious that so many people get confused or upset about using AI in writing. I have no doubt some people will still seek out pieces that wear a human touch on their sleeve—raw, imperfect, and deeply personal. Others may prefer the breadth and depth that AI-assisted writing can offer, pulling facts from diverse fields or threading philosophy into a piece more seamlessly than most people can on their own. Neither approach is “wrong.” In fact, as large language models get better, we might see people become “AI curators,” folks who master the art of prompting and refining content to produce writing that stands out. That might sound odd, but it’s not much different than a photographer turning a camera lens into something more than just a window.
It’s also worth noting that not everyone writes to create high art. We use words to explore deep philosophical topics, gather knowledge, or simply get a message across. In that sense, what’s the harm in using AI as a research assistant or a sounding board for ideas? If you’re trying to express something clearly and concisely, and an AI helps you do that, doesn’t that ultimately serve your goal? The real question is: do we rely on it blindly, or do we bring our own critical thinking, our own humanity, into the process?
Speaking for myself, I’m neither a pure artist chasing the perfect phrase, nor someone trying to show off how I can tame a tool. I’m just curious—constantly pondering how the world works and searching for whatever truth is out there. I share my journey here in case it resonates with someone else. And yes, I use AI. Sometimes I rely on it for fine-tuning my writing or looking up information; sometimes I use it to spark new angles on a topic. Whether or not any of this is worth reading is for you to decide, but in my eyes, it’s the human mind—questioning, refining, and creating—that will always fascinate me, no matter how advanced our tools become.
