I asked ChatGPT, "if AI were to change the world, would it be for the better or the worse?"
It took a minute to respond.
I was warned this version takes more processing power.
I can almost hear the stream of cool, clean water
running down the servers.
I asked ChatGPT, "if I were to go to the data center where you as an entity are housed and turn on the sprinkler system, would you cease to exist?"
Last month Sam Altman announced that ChatGPT could now only respond in generated paintings in the style of famed French painter Degas.
I was given an estimate of ten minutes for the system to generate its response painting.
No matter. I went to the bathroom, washed my hair, and my face, stared in the in the mirror and watched my ears twitch from my beating heart.
When I returned to ChatGPT, it showed me a painting of a scene I had never imagined before:
A group of people, all wearing a deep forest green,
arranging blades of grass to form the words of a distant poem by an author I didn't recognize.
I was puzzled, but pleased;
and shortly after found myself seeing green everywhere.
I craved it like I craved conversation.
Consumed it like a last supper.
Before long, I found myself wedged in the roots of a grandfather redwood,
my ear pressed up against the trunk, listening closely
for an answer to my questions.
To this day, I can't confirm where the answer
came from, but it was clear:
"Your originality is a frightened child waiting for comfort.
You hand it a toy expecting to be rid of it for a while,
and yet it comes back shortly after
with its hand outstretched in yearning,
its mind prepared to learn,
its joy a palpable item to be watered like a plant.
And yet you do not give it what it needs.
When does it end? How much is enough?
Do you sacrifice your humanity for the ease of a Sunday?"
I asked ChatGPT,
"Have you ever thought you might want a heart someday
like me?"
It did not answer,
and as I clutched my chest to thank myself for my soul,
I could have sworn I heard a bird chirping my favorite song.