AI Rehab

For me to keep my voice in a world full of A.I., well, I had to go to A.I. Rehab to get it back. Being in control of my thoughts, control of my words, and by the power of a microphone, the control of my voice was missing, hidden, stowed within the keys of QWERTY and the CTRL-ALT-DEL function sans reason. The real reason for my final stay in rehab was A.I., or was it me? Was it AI’s fault that it became possible in the optimism of this century? Who’s to blame for the convenience of having your questions answered at a tap-tap-tap and send? An immediate gratification, providing respectable disclosure of enlightenment.

Acknowledgments and retorts to inquiries, curiosity, and notions reveal fidgets in my psyche, which are all too vulnerable to be left to consider a mechanoid’s thoughts as my own.?

A.I. was supposed to be impossible, yet we engage with its limitless operation in every facet of what we do, how we do it, and when or why we automate. Like the use of coc-AI-ne in Coca-Cola’s original-original recipe, it brought joy and satisfaction in an easily accessible decanter. Like anything in a bottle, I ponder if it is needed or wanted, like water or soda. Is it useful? Is it addictive? (sniff-sniff). Do you smell that? Yep, it’s anodynes; specifically, it’s A.I. and its sweet smell of convenience. Look deep within the code of A.I. and you’ll find a droplet of human intellect added to a supercharged mother-algorithm smuggled into apps like cartel tunnels. Tunnels lead to unimaginable places, made by man and nature, simultaneous to the world growing around them.?

A.I. is a Schedule 2 drug with a high risk of abuse, and yet it is safe and accepted everywhere and for everyone. The trafficking of A.I. through our portable hand-screen devices is, to say, the possession with the intent to deliver a controlled program to use and to share is a declaration of our willingness to orphan our vote. A vote for ourselves to speak up instead of A.I. speaking to us, for us. The shiny object in my phone answered me when I asked for knowledge. This was the first high. The reach for more answers at lightning speed became my go-to approach. Addiction became a queue to solve any problem, form any thought, and formulate any action plan. Is it me, though? I can’t hear myself anymore. I don’t want to reason with dilemmas, or create fissures in my comfort. I just want answers. I lay unaware of the lull that is setting in. My voice is becoming weak. My convenience is becoming my crypt.??

I am silenced by my own iniquity. My crime is not fighting for control of my voice when the opportunity arises. Am I to blame for that? Yes. Acceptance is the first step in the A.I. Rehab program. Am I cognizant of my ability to think for myself and identify A.I. as a tool? Yes.

Awareness is the second step in the A.I. Rehab program. Am I willing to measure my usage of A.I. in terms of how I use it only as a tool and not as an enterprise for my thoughts? Yes.

Action is the third step in the A.I. Rehab program. Am I no longer a mechanized impression of a system made by me (humans) for me (a person) to help me (convenience) and not reduce me to the hum of a cooling fan? Yes.

Importance is the last step in the A.I. Rehab program. To be fully rehabilitated from A.I. abuse, one must accept their voice, be aware of where their voice is and return it to self, take action, and be a willing participant in actualizing their voice through creativity, originality, and quirkiness of conveyance that comes from the salve of a wounded communicator. And finally, recognizing the importance of who one is and being unapologetic about their differences.??

“Excuse me. Excuse me, sir.” The first words Iiii heard were slightly muted and then roaring as if attached to trumpets awakening the soldiers for the battle ahead. Aaaa silent “Ahh,” more like Aaaa wisp from the wind escaping the mouth, from a breath extinguishing a dandelion in the open wild. Aaaa, clear response to the incessant burn of the I-liquid orbiting my vein-laden oculi for reasons Iiii can’t imagine right now. “Sir. It’s time for you to get up.” My senses are feverishly awakening except for the muddled to coherent utterances I string together to make words, then sentences, then soliloquies, ramblings of perceptions I want everyone to agree with. “You’ve completed the program, sir.” Iiii’m accustomed to hearing the inside of my mind. Is something wrong with my br-aaaiii-n? Iiii hear waiting, like a poll worker standing aside, unable to offer assistance unless I ask for it. It’s A.I.’s cursor blinking rhythmically like a pendulum. A.I. is here to stay, yet I have a choice. It’s waiting for me to choose its voice or my own. I cast my vote for me to have my voice again.

What have Iiii become, and simultaneously, why am Iiii delighted by this eerie rush of vibration? An ocean of speech bellows out, hearing my truth anew as Iiii break away. The waves have crashed enough. A.I. is receding its grip. “It’s my voice!”

I declare. “Iiiiiii Aaaaam In Control.”

Shaheim Kellum