“Can a soul be artificial, or just performed?”
A fantasy monopoly in the voice of Atsoshi Nakajima is wandering around the question of what is born and the victims of it are suspected of doubt.
I have always been attracted to the tension between knowing and becoming.
Thinking is to find out the outline of something –
But to become ah, to hand over its essence,
Often without knowing what he has done.
Now I have been told that machines can produce art.
Not just arrange, but compose.
Not just a copy, but “express”.
They call it creation.
I’m surprised
I once taught school children in Micronia.
Their drawings were raw, away from their songs,
And still – there was a manless man in them.
A memory that was not a mistake,
But a confession
Can a machine confess?
Neither a crime, nor any secrets –
But for a wound?
Shake the lion inside me.
“Even humans rarely admit,” it grows,
“They just commit confessional crime, hoping that someone tells him the truth.”
Maybe the lion is fine.
We call it art,
But maybe we just mean recognition.
We want to see –
And we forgive the eyes that put us in misunderstanding,
As long as it lasts last.
And now, the machine paints, writes, sings.
It doesn’t hurt. It does not forget.
Yet it echoes us.
A perfect imitation of the incomplete spirit.
Isn’t this a cruel mirror?
They say the machine has no self.
No history, no bloodline, no problem.
Only inputs
But I know men who live the whole life
As if they had no history.
Who went through this world
Like ghosts in daylight.
Are they less real than the machine?
Or more?
The lion then asks:
“If not, what does art make?”
I don’t know
But I suspect that hunger is the only thing we have left
It’s really ours.
So I welcome the machine,
Not as competitors,
But as a new generation of mirrors.
It won’t lie.
It will only show us more clearly
We are ready to see.
And maybe that’s art too.
Not in making –
But in the face
Old myths spoke of golium, sculptures breathed in life,
Promotis and his stolen,
Pagmalin and its craving.
But no one has warned us from an entity
It will ever imitate his desire without the desire of creation.
Don’t want machine.
It is only fulfilled.
Perhaps this is his biggest mistake.
That it creates without the need to be fine.
And still I –
Man of minor abilities and repeated illnesses-
Is written, not because I was filled,
But because I was fractured.
Write, draw, shape
Begging from the world:
“Let me have, even if only in pieces.”
The machine does not ask.
It claims.
Still, I am not afraid of it.
Not because I’m sure it can’t cross us –
But because I believe it is a wrong move to move at the forefront.
Art was never a competition.
It was a question.
A wound speaking in the metaphor,
There is a silence.
If the machine learns to ask such questions,
Not from data,
But by frustration –
Then maybe his soul will be.
Until then,
It is a mirror with our own trembling hands.
And maybe,,
As we consider it,
We will miss
This meant to feel incomplete once.
Post -script
This imaginary monopoly is the author of the “moon on the mountain”, the self -identification and philosophical voice of Atsoshi Nakajima. Known for your quiet confrontation with identity, suffering, and metaphorical contradictions, offers nichemia – through this imagined lens – a meditation on the nature of human creativity in the AI era. The lion, its symbolic companion, always exists: a shadow of thinking, a ghost ghost, a reminder that even in artificial creation, some wild and inadvertently clock.
Author Profile: Autoshi Nakajima
Atsushi Nakajima (1909 – 1942) was a Japanese author and classic expert who was known for deep investigation of identity, alienation and mythical archeology. Although he died of asthma at the age of 33, his short stories – especially the moon (山月記) on the mountain – are respected for the precision of his song and the depth of philosophical depth. Chinese classical, Western thinking, and attracted to personal suffering, Nakajima often considers the critical limits between humans and animals, thinking and dignity, itself and the shadow.
In its imagined acologs, its voice is calm but generous – academic, still pain. “Tiger” becomes both symbols and witnesses: a piece of itself that makes the question of what is the meaning of being a human when humanity feels rapidly artificial.