The Untamable Spark: What AI and Medication Still Can’t Silence in Me
My own pen doesn’t leak, but the ink on my arms reminds me of my spirit. Her soul is lightning, blazingly untamed; there is a glowing fire flashing through her veins. A tattoo of a poem I wrote, that twines me to female writers like Wang and Woolf. Whether I like it or not, my purpose, my creativity, is sealed to my skin with ink, bound to my soul with blood. Wang, Woolf and I, we’re creative spirits, and however AI might progress or come to surpass us, it can never possess a spirit untamed. A spirit with intent. It can mimic, it can repeat, and weave something together from already existing sources, but it can never thrive. It can never conquer the threat of its own mind.
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