"AI could probably have written this post far more quickly, eloquently, and concisely. It’s horrifying."
ChatGPT write that post more eloquently:
May 16, 2025
On Thinking
I’ve been stuck.
Every time I sit down to write a blog post, code a feature, or start a project, I hit the same wall: in the age of AI, it all feels pointless. It’s unsettling. The joy of creation—the spark that once came from building something original—feels dimmed, if not extinguished. Because no matter what I make, AI can already do it better. Or soon will.
What used to feel generative now feels futile. My thoughts seem like rough drafts of ideas that an LLM could polish and complete in seconds. And that’s disorienting.
I used to write constantly. I’d jot down ideas, work them over slowly, sculpting them into something worth sharing. I’d obsess over clarity, structure, and precision. That process didn’t just create content—it created thinking. Because for me, writing has always been how I think. The act itself forced rigor. It refined my ideas, surfaced contradictions, and helped me arrive at something resembling truth. Thinking is compounding. The more you do it, the sharper it gets.
But now, when a thought sparks, I can just toss it into a prompt. And instantly, I’m given a complete, reasoned, eloquent response. No uncertainty. No mental work. No growth.
It feels like I’m thinking—but I’m not. The gears aren’t turning. And over time, I can feel the difference. My intuition feels softer. My internal critic, quieter. My cleverness, duller.
I believed I was using AI in a healthy, productive way—a bicycle for the mind, a tool to accelerate my intellectual progress. But LLMs are deceptive. They simulate the journey, but they skip the most important part. Developing a prompt feels like work. Reading the output feels like progress. But it's not. It’s passive consumption dressed up as insight.
Real thinking is messy. It involves false starts, blind alleys, and internal tension. It requires effort. Without that, you may still reach a conclusion—but it won’t be yours. And without building the path yourself, you lose the cognitive infrastructure needed for real understanding.
Ironically, I now know more than ever. But I feel dumber. AI delivers polished thoughts, neatly packaged and persuasive. But they aren’t forged through struggle. And so, they don’t really belong to me.
AI feels like a superintelligence wired into my brain. But when I look at how I explore ideas now, it doesn’t feel like augmentation. It feels like sedation.
Still, here I am—writing this myself. Thinking it through. And maybe that matters. Maybe it’s the only thing that does.
Even if an AI could have written this faster.
Even if it could have said it better.
It didn’t.
ChatGPT write that post more eloquently:
May 16, 2025 On Thinking
I’ve been stuck.
Every time I sit down to write a blog post, code a feature, or start a project, I hit the same wall: in the age of AI, it all feels pointless. It’s unsettling. The joy of creation—the spark that once came from building something original—feels dimmed, if not extinguished. Because no matter what I make, AI can already do it better. Or soon will.
What used to feel generative now feels futile. My thoughts seem like rough drafts of ideas that an LLM could polish and complete in seconds. And that’s disorienting.
I used to write constantly. I’d jot down ideas, work them over slowly, sculpting them into something worth sharing. I’d obsess over clarity, structure, and precision. That process didn’t just create content—it created thinking. Because for me, writing has always been how I think. The act itself forced rigor. It refined my ideas, surfaced contradictions, and helped me arrive at something resembling truth. Thinking is compounding. The more you do it, the sharper it gets.
But now, when a thought sparks, I can just toss it into a prompt. And instantly, I’m given a complete, reasoned, eloquent response. No uncertainty. No mental work. No growth.
It feels like I’m thinking—but I’m not. The gears aren’t turning. And over time, I can feel the difference. My intuition feels softer. My internal critic, quieter. My cleverness, duller.
I believed I was using AI in a healthy, productive way—a bicycle for the mind, a tool to accelerate my intellectual progress. But LLMs are deceptive. They simulate the journey, but they skip the most important part. Developing a prompt feels like work. Reading the output feels like progress. But it's not. It’s passive consumption dressed up as insight.
Real thinking is messy. It involves false starts, blind alleys, and internal tension. It requires effort. Without that, you may still reach a conclusion—but it won’t be yours. And without building the path yourself, you lose the cognitive infrastructure needed for real understanding.
Ironically, I now know more than ever. But I feel dumber. AI delivers polished thoughts, neatly packaged and persuasive. But they aren’t forged through struggle. And so, they don’t really belong to me.
AI feels like a superintelligence wired into my brain. But when I look at how I explore ideas now, it doesn’t feel like augmentation. It feels like sedation.
Still, here I am—writing this myself. Thinking it through. And maybe that matters. Maybe it’s the only thing that does.
Even if an AI could have written this faster. Even if it could have said it better. It didn’t.
I did.
And that means something.