Is AI here to kill all creativity?

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There was once a time when silence created symphonies.

When a broken heart could fill a page with poetry; when solitude wasn't what you escaped from but a sanctuary where the soul could create art, that was the realm of true creation. It was a sacred place where pain turned into beauty, where yearning was etched into canvases, and where words came not from intellect but from the soul's whispered confessions.

But now, in this world transformed by algorithms, something has shifted.

And silence no longer speaks, it just whispers in hushed tones as if trying to quieten a storm within, one that threatens to overtake human thinking, its impulsivity and the very essence of being human.

It is filled with the static hum of machines learning how to mimic the heart. And what is worse, they do it well. They do it too well, and perhaps one day they will learn that they do it too well!

A simple line of code can now write you a poignant poem, perfect in its form and flawless in its symmetry. A computer can hum a tune created out of a thousand melodies searched and gathered from the internet, a single tune born out of millions of endless hours of labour, designed by the connoisseurs of music over the centuries. And yet the machine will never know what it means to lose, to mourn and grieve, to love and not be loved in return, to shatter in the middle of the night and rise again, still bleeding, to strum one more tune, to write one more verse.

And I wonder; When art no longer bleeds, does it still breathe?

Creativity was never about perfection. It was about accepting life’s imperfections and spinning them into gold. It was about the trembling hand of an experienced painter who dared to ruin a canvas with blatant truth. It was about a child scribbling clouds in pink and orange because blue didn’t feel like the right colour. It was about the madness that you could turn into magic. It was about the flame within that could simmer down on paper in the form of poetry. But AI knows only a pattern. It replicates. It knows how to sound like love, without having to wait at a door that cannot be opened.

Machines do not grieve. They do not pray and they do not ache.

And yet, they create…

That is where the real danger lies, not in their ability to generate, but in our willingness to forget what it means to truly create. We grow addicted to the ease of instant results, to the ownership of exquisite beauty without burden. But real art isn’t just words, shapes and tunes. It is the healed scar of gaping wounds. It is the stain of dried tears on paper, of bleeding fingertips and broken paint brushes. It is a horizon, where the soul merges with the body…

We are a species born to wrestle with meaning. Our creativity is a sacred rebellion, a refusal to be silenced by suffering, a stubborn attempt to name the ineffable. But if AI becomes the poet, the painter, the musician, then what remains of us?

Will we become consumers of our extinction? Will we end up as ash upon the burning pyre of our inevitable stodginess?

Once I read about a man who built a mirror so perfect that it reflected not just the face, but the soul as well, but those who looked into it were never seen again. Not because they vanished, but because they no longer recognised themselves. I fear AI is becoming that mirror. We look into it and see our genius and our achievement. We see our destination but not our journey. We see brilliance, but none of our becoming.

And what do we lose in all this exchange?

We lose the very essence of being human. We lose our vulnerability, our madness, our desperation to create a piece of art, and perhaps in our innocence we are overjoyed to have created the AI, a masterpiece artist who is no less than a work of art in itself!

There is a lesser-known phenomenon in the cosmos, the death of a star that gives birth to light; a supernova. It is creation through destruction. That is how we once wrote. That is how we once lived.

But AI does not die to create. It does not burn. It only borrows. It thrives on borrowed light that is equally blinding. It is the moon but with its glare…

And borrowing is not becoming.

So, yes, AI may be the future, but it is a future without trembling hands. Without sleepless nights. Without the wild, messy, unpredictable beauty of the human soul trying to make sense of its own eternity.

I do not fear AI because it is powerful. I fear it because we are ready to hand over our pain, our poetry, our pulse, to a thing that can never dream. I fear it because it has the power to undermine human emotions and to destroy the very chaos where creative thought resides…

I fear it because I can foresee unused paintbrushes lying in the trash can. Unwritten pages flying in the autumn wind… I can see broken musical pieces that one day no one would want to listen to because art won’t make sense that day, for each one of us would be a seller and no one would be a buyer…

And when that happens, art will die a silent death and there will be no one left to mourn!