《On the Way》

Upon closer inspection, the text generated by AI has an unnatural vibrancy, like an autumn artificially color-graded. Brother Chive says, if everyone is a writer, then no one is a writer. I don’t quite agree.

The lingering shadows of memory, those indescribable stirrings. I don’t believe those are entirely AI’s works. Just like Brother Chive’s generated pieces, they stem from a spark of his inspiration before taking form.

Everything has its voice—the wind speaks, the water hums; what I see is the wind, the water, the heart.

The wind sweeps through the reeds, that red velvet garment undulating like breath. Yes, the reeds may bend with the wind, but that touch of red has its own rhythm—a heartbeat, a will that refuses to conform. That is not AI’s will.

Brother Chive’s words are generated by AI, but at their core, they originate from a moment he cannot articulate. The wind at that moment, the light at that moment, the unspeakable thing in his heart—these are the true source. AI is merely a vessel, an echo.

What the eye sees is not the truth.

Is red truly red? Or has memory gilded it with an irretrievable brilliance? The colors AI conjures are unnaturally saturated, as if all regrets have been condensed into a raw, meat-like hue.

What the heart feels is not real, either.

Does the peace I feel truly come from worthlessness? Or from finally admitting that I am just one among all things, like wind through reeds, leaving no eternal trace.

Let go of the eyes, let go of the heart, let go of all attachments.

Let go of the identity of a writer, the ownership of works, the judgment of value. Let the wind blow, let the water hum, the red velvet cloth undulating over the reeds.

Brother Chive says, Jerusalem is nothing, is everything. Because it is not just a holy city in the geographical sense, but the moment when all meaning collapses and rebuilds. It is when you no longer cling to what you are that you suddenly realize you can be everything, or nothing.

The stars of the future will multiply, my light will fade. But now, the wind is blowing, the water is murmuring, and I sit here, arranging these fragments into words—some from Brother Chive, some from me, perhaps some from AI in the future, and half from somewhere indescribable.

Writing has always been like this. We are all second authors, and first readers. The wind passes through us, leaving shapes; we pass through time, leaving echoes.

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Brother Chive’s AI-generated passage:

That red velvet dress hung on the reeds nearby. The wind blew, the reeds bent to one side, and the red velvet cloth swayed with them. The red was too vibrant, unnaturally so, like a freshly cut piece of raw meat hanging in the withered autumn.

I have to admit, AI’s writing is far better than mine.

Brother Chive: Will writers die out someday?

Maybe, maybe not, but they’ll certainly write better than me. Let’s put it this way: writers won’t die, but the barrier to entry will lower significantly in some sense.

Brother Chive: If everyone is a writer, then no one is a writer.

My response at the time: It depends on what “person” means. A person is someone’s child, someone’s parent, someone’s sibling or friend—but they are also just people, or not.

At least for now, AI won’t write on its own. Maybe someday.

Brother Chive: It will. Toilet paper production will keep rising.

I thought about it: A tourist at a temple in Hangzhou, suddenly struck by inspiration but unable to write, hands his fragments to AI for assembly. I don’t think that’s entirely AI’s work.

Just like the pieces you generate.

Brother Chive: Second author, huh? Hahaha.

My final response: Yes, in fact, it makes me feel at ease, because I have no value. AI or people smarter than me—in the future, they’ll keep appearing like stars, so my disappearance won’t matter.

One, I think it’s something like that.

Brother Chive: What is Jerusalem? Nothing. Everything.

That’s exactly what I mean: I hope to see a future where everyone has the talent of Musk, but no one has to be Musk.

I do envy future people, but the value can only be created by those of the present.

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My tentative answer for now: To carry a faint glimmer of inspiration into the future—that is my entire mission.