The Boy Who Cried AI

The boy who cried AI

standing proud in the comments,

thought himself so clever.

As if he alone could tell

what was “real”

and what was not.

.

A seer of pixels,

a hunter of fakes.

.

But his wisdom was only speed.

The reflex of doubt

instead of patience,

of wonder.

.

A video of an ocean wave,

of saltwater, muscle, and foam.

He called it code.

A digital tide not of salt,

not of foam that stung the lips of sailors.

.

A photo of a crafted dress,

stitched with patience and careful hands.

He called it machine,

too overconfident to research,

the small business responsible.

.

Every marvel

reduced to algorithm for the boy.

Every awe

flattened to trick.

.

Ignorance

wearing a mask of insight.

Suspicion

masquerading as sharpness.

.

And the crowd

learning from him

no longer trusted the sky,

nor the sea,

or the hand that made.

.

Said the boy:

“To doubt is to become clever.

To marvel is to be naive.”

.

So the boy kept shouting,

And the people kept believing:

AI.

AI.

AI.

.

Not answering the door to truth.

Not even for the ocean,

not the needle and thread,

nor the human voice.

.

Until the only thing unreal

was his faith

in anything at all.

.

Question. But, please, always be in awe.