It’s Not AI’s Fault

Let me just say that upfront. This isn’t a rant against ChatGPT or Perplexity or whatever tool is taking the internet by storm this week. AI has made life easier. Way easier. It helps us finish tasks faster, write better emails, plan trips, even comfort us on bad days.

But today, I’m not here to praise it. Today, I want to mourn something I lost quietly, slowly, and almost without noticing. My creativity.

Not completely. Not all at once. But the way I used to chase inspiration, the way I’d savor a single poem for hours, the way I’d feel seen by a stranger’s words. That's what I miss.

Let me explain.

The Joy of the Chase

There was a time when I wanted to read a poem on grief. Or heartbreak. Or hope. And what would I do? I’d search. I’d spend hours scrolling through dusty blog pages. I’d go to the library and pull out old anthologies. I’d text a friend, asking, "Hey, do you know something beautiful about this?"

And when I found it? Pure joy. My heart would leap. I’d whisper, "Yes! This is it. This is exactly how I feel."

And then I’d reread it. Again. And again. I’d sit with it, underline it, scribble in the margins. I’d think about the poet. Who were they? What were they feeling? How did they find these words that reached right into my chest and pressed on that one aching spot?

I felt less alone. I felt connected to the human experience. Through someone else’s words, I understood myself a little better.

That was the magic.

The Instant Answer Era

Now? Now it’s different. 

Let’s say I want to read a poem about loneliness.

I open ChatGPT. Type in, "Write me a poem about loneliness."

And just like that, I have one. Sometimes it's beautiful. Often it’s technically good. Rhymes in the right places. Touches on all the right feelings.

I can even ask for an explanation: "Break it down for me, line by line."

Instantly, I get a neat analysis.

Helpful? Sure. Convenient? Absolutely. But something’s missing.

There’s no chase.

No longing. No surprise. No joy in discovery.

Just... a product.

A poem made just for me, yes. But without the texture of lived experience. Without that flicker of the human soul. Without that moment of thinking, Wow, someone else felt this too. And they wrote it down. And I found it.

We’ve swapped serendipity for speed. Connection for convenience.

And I feel it.

The world feels a little more grey.

What Writing Used to Feel Like

I still write. I still try. But even that has changed.

Before, I’d sit with a blank page for hours. I’d struggle. I’d scribble and erase. I’d get stuck on a line and walk around my room like a mad poet until it clicked. And when it clicks? Oh, what a feeling.

Now, if I get stuck, I just... ask for help. I ask AI to suggest a metaphor. Or finish the sentence. Or rewrite the whole thing.

It’s efficient. It’s useful. But it’s also heartbreaking.

Because every time I skip the struggle, I lose a piece of myself. The part that used to wrestle with words. The part that used to stay up all night rearranging stanzas just to feel something.

I’m not mad at AI. I’m really not. It’s a tool. A brilliant one.

But I miss me. I miss the version of me that worked hard for inspiration. The one who found poetry on street corners and in overheard conversations. The one who believed that some words were worth waiting for.

What We’ve Lost

I don’t want to go back in time. I’m not trying to romanticize suffering. But I do want to remember what we’ve lost.

We used to share art because it meant something. Because it was a piece of our hearts, carved out and handed over. Now, it sometimes feels like we’re just generating content. Pushing out words for the sake of it.

Even reading feels different. A poem written by a human. Maybe it’s flawed. Maybe it’s messy. But it carries weight. It carries history. A story. A hand reaching out.

A poem written by AI? It’s clean. It’s polished. But it feels like holding a photograph instead of a memory. Pretty, but hollow.

A Quiet Grief

So today, I’m grieving. Not dramatically. Not with anger. Just quietly.

I miss the struggle. I miss the search. I miss the joy of finding that one poem that made everything make sense.

I miss knowing that someone out there, some stranger I’ll never meet, felt exactly how I did and decided to put it into words.

And I miss being that person too.

Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe I’ll learn to live with the new tools and find a balance. Maybe I’ll stop relying so much on shortcuts and start listening to that quiet voice in my own head again.

I hope so.

Because I want my muse back.

Not replaced. Not upgraded. Just returned. A little older. A little quieter. But still full of color.

Still full of life.