"I ask it when I listen to a close friend of mine, a world-renowned cosmologist, whose knowledge seems limitless but whose humility runs even deeper. He can discuss black holes one minute and quote the Tao Te Ching the next. He doesn't just know facts-he knows how to listen. He knows how to explain something complicated without making you feel small. That, to me, is real intelligence."
"Let me say this clearly: I'm grateful for AI. This very essay was shaped with its help. I have advanced macular degeneration. Proofreading my own writing is difficult-sometimes impossible. Tools like this are not a luxury for me. They are a gift. A lifeline. Without them, I wouldn't be able to keep writing. For that, I'm thankful. But there is a kind of intelligence that AI will never know."
"But there is a kind of intelligence that AI will never know. It won't feel the panic of forgetting your lines onstage, or the rush of remembering them mid-breath. It doesn't lie awake at night wondering whether your work matters. It doesn't weep when your mother no longer remembers your name. It doesn't get nervous before a job interview. It hasn't failed, or recovered, or loved. It can help express a feeling, but it cannot have one."
A lifelong question about intelligence is framed by roles as teacher, filmmaker, researcher, and a person losing vision to macular degeneration. Observing a humble, knowledgeable cosmologist reveals intelligence as the ability to listen, empathize, and explain without diminishing others. Artificial intelligence demonstrates impressive fluency, competence, and practical help—especially as an assistive tool for disability and writing. Despite capabilities, AI lacks lived experience and genuine emotions: it cannot feel panic, grief, nervousness, failure, recovery, or love. AI can help express feelings but cannot have them, functioning as a powerful tool rather than a sentient mind.
Read at Tiny Buddha
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