What Are the Long-Term Consequences of AI?

What are the long-term consequences of AI? They say: “If you meet the Buddha by the road, kill him.”

It simply means that if you worship any fixed idea outside your immediate experience, it is an illusion — destroy it. Don’t worship the map; walk the path. If something or someone hinders your “direct seeing,” let it go.

In an article I found on LinkedIn titled “Every Company Now Sounds Like ChatGPT— and That’s the Biggest Brand Opportunity in a Decade,” the author says that an analysis of 73 corporate documents has revealed the consistent use of the same syntactic constructions across multiple brands. Brands begin to sound the same:

Language models are trained to produce the statistical average of everything ever written, so when enough companies route their communications through them, every company starts sounding like the average of every other company.

Ahrefs analyzed 900,000 new web pages and found 74% contained AI-generated content. As more and more brands use ChatGPT, more and more brands begin sounding like ChatGPT.

The author concludes: “Today, sounding different becomes the rarest competitive advantage a company can have. The company with real personality, earned conviction, and concrete specificity stands out like a bonfire in a field of flashlights.”

AI makes you sound like AI — and makes you lose your voice. When we allow AI to speak for us, we become mute. When we meet a new person, we instinctively look for something unique about them. We call a person interesting only if they have a voice — not when they sound like everyone else.

Having a voice means to see and describe things in a way no one else does. I don’t want my friends to sound the same today as they did yesterday. If they are alive, they must have new experiences today worth sharing. And when they do, it makes me come alive too.

When we meet someone who sounds average, we quickly forget what they say. Yet we know — almost instinctively — that there are no average people. If someone sounds average, it simply means they have lost their voice: for some reason, they don’t speak from their own experience.

Unlike AI, we have direct experience. We are not merely a database of theoretical knowledge. We have cooked an omelet a thousand times — and we know how to make it, not as information, but as an embodied practice. And we can speak of it in our own voice.

The world desperately lacks voices because we keep delegating our voice to the Buddha by the road. If something doesn’t allow you to speak from your own heart, life, and experience — kill it. The world doesn’t need the average — only the real.

The real will be remembered. Real people are remembered, real names and brands are remembered. They can’t help being remembered — because they call. Interestingly, the word voice is related to the Latin vocare, “to call.”

To have a voice means to call. If I encounter something or someone and nothing calls to me, I will quickly forget it. We are living in a unique time — people are beginning to sense that being fully human pays, while being less than human doesn’t.

If I want to have a voice — to call, to awaken — I must speak from my direct experience. Without reference to any Buddha on the road.

“Memory favors the company that said something pointed… something that made them think ‘these people actually know what they’re talking about.’ Corporate America is converging on a single voice. The brands that opt out will own the next decade.” — Quote from the above-mentioned article on LinkedIn.

How Can We Truly Know Anything?

How can we truly know anything? In Poetic Diction, Owen Barfield argues that meaning is not static. When a logician attempts to fix the meaning of a term, it is inevitably reduced.

Try to define the word “home,” and you are left with something that is no longer much of a home. Try to define your spouse, and before long, you no longer have a spouse.

The meaning of “home” is revealed only to the one who dwells in it poetically. The meaning of “spouse” is revealed only to the one who dwells with them poetically.

According to Barfield, meaning emerges when the poet — maker in Greek — through inspiration, stumbles upon a fresh metaphor that stirs and shifts human consciousness.

“The poet’s relation to terms is that of a maker.” — Poetic Diction

In other words, unless I look at my spouse and allow a fresh metaphor to strike me unexpectedly, I reduce her to less than she is. But if I find the metaphor — or rather, if the metaphor finds me — the meaning will be revealed as a felt change of consciousness.

Modern consciousness recognizes only static meaning because it is bound to a particular lens — the lens of non-participation. That is why the modern world has so little meaning: such a view is inherently reductive.

It assumes that meaning can be grasped by definition, captured within an affixed description, as though it existed independently of the one who perceives it.

But there is no such thing as fixed, static meaning. The Logos of a thing is revealed only in between — in the living relation between myself and the thing. Meaning arises as I participate in it — through inspired metaphor.

The word “meaning” itself has a curious etymology. It comes from the Old English mǣnan, which means “to intend” or “to signify.” Surprisingly, the noun mean (as in Golden Mean) comes from a related Old English term “gemǣne.” Both mǣnan and gemǣne trace back to one common Proto-Indo-European root: mei- / moi-, which means to bind, unite, exchange, have in common.

In other words, meaning arises within a certain means — within a medium, in the shared space, in-between. Signification is revealed only through participation.

Barfield quotes Aristotle:

“The making of metaphors is by far the most important; since this alone does not involve borrowing from somebody else and is [therefore] a mark of genius; for to make a good metaphor is to contemplate likeness.” — Poetic Diction

A good metaphor is inspiration itself — it comes directly from the Spirit revealing the Logos. True metaphor doesn’t borrow anything from anyone; through imagination it ascends directly to God and is granted the gift of Mercurial speech.

Then, it strikes us with a magical wand of sound and shifts our consciousness to contemplate True Likeness. At that point, we no longer need definitions — we know.

What is the Origin of the Word Data?

What is the origin of the word data? What is data? Here’s a definition I found online:

“Data is raw, unorganized facts, figures, symbols, or observations that represent details about events, objects, or phenomena. As the basic, unprocessed units of information, data can be numerical (quantitative) or descriptive (qualitative). Once collected, structured, and interpreted, data is transformed into valuable insights used for decision-making.”

However, if you look up the etymology of the word data, you will see that it means “something given” — a gift. It comes from the Proto-Indo-European root do-, “to give,” and belongs to a whole family of words related to giving, such as donationdowryPandoraTheodore, and even дар (gift) in Russian.

The difference between the modern understanding of data and its original meaning is subtle but telling. In our time, data is all about collecting information, as if it were simply there for the taking. In the past, however, data meant a gift — and gifts must be recognized.

For example, when I look at my legs, I can collect all sorts of data about them, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I have recognized them as a gift. Recognizing a gift is always a matter of awareness, not calculation.

Even if I collect all the “data” about my legs — length, weight, width, and so on — I still don’t truly know what they are. I only know what they are when I become aware that they have been given.

“When we were children we were grateful to those who filled our stockings at Christmas time. Why are we not grateful to God for filling our stockings with legs?” — G.K. Chesterton

My legs are a given — datum. But my knowing what they are is not a given — not datum. Properly speaking, data is a gift recognized. All measurements and calculations made prior to this recognition diminish knowledge rather than increase it.

True knowledge is born from the awareness of a gift. The modern approach to data leads to the diminishment of true knowledge because it is not rooted in wonder — the awareness that we possess nothing yet have been given everything. Without awe and wonder, data becomes anti-knowledge.

What is anti-knowledge? It is a husk of knowledge, devoid of substance. Unless I recognize the gift of legs in my stockings, I live under the illusion of knowing. To know my legs is to experience the awe of having them. That is true knowledge — true data.

True data grants joy, not control or power. When I become aware of the gift of legs, I am struck by the joy of walking on them. If I believe I possess them by right, I will feel no joy. Joy is the overflow of awareness that I dwell within a gift.

Data is a given, but we cannot take it for granted. If we do, we fail to understand that it has been granted. Awareness of a gift is the only antidote to taking things for granted.

We speak of “harvesting” data, “processing” data, “owning” data. The language reveals the posture: reality is no longer a gift but a standing resource. And once reality becomes a resource, wonder goes. What remains is manipulation.

But gifts cannot be manipulated without ceasing to be gifts. To know the meaning of data we must turn and become like little children. A child knows their legs not by measurements in inches, but by the measure of delight in using them.

A knower is a lover, not a consumer. A lover doesn’t stand outside and analyze; he stands within and is astonished.

Recovery of true knowledge begins with a conversion of attention — a return to wonder. It’s all about learning to master thinking through thanking.