At a cost. Begone. Thrown into hell. Into an unchanging universe. Survive or be hunted. Respawning with the scars. The trauma. The memories. Rotting, forgotten,

An Eye for an Ai.

For years, ai has developed to become the most relied upon source of information. From image generation to essays forged in code– people do not understand the threat that artificial intelligence has on humanity. The damage and hypocrisy one simple prompt can do, is irreversible. But people will remain ignorant because AI is a “tool” for them.

Artificial Intelligence once started off, just as a concept in technology that algorithms use. To train what a front page looks like whenever you boot up YouTube or Twitter. To track your movement, tinkering your feed for your taste. But with the growing progression of how AI can detect and scan, it can copy.

As a writer and artist, each day that passes through time–someone's style is ripped from them, as Artificial intelligence feeds on it. It doesn't just consume. It substitutes. And suddenly, certain art styles are called ai. We can see this on Tiktok, and X. When users spot a certain art style, they immediately fire the accusations that the artist has used ai. Creators of art pieces that stretch through the past and future are in danger.

Imagine your hard work, the piece of art you struggled to formulate into the canvas or paper is suddenly snatched away, processed without your consent. Artists find themselves at risk, as their talent is not a necessity anymore. Ai has stolen their place when it comes to the production of literature or art.

But, AI doesn't end with simple theft of hardwork, passion, and emotion. It's the reason 8% of drinking water has diminished. People will blabber on saying 8% isn't much; but in this world of chaos? It is. The world we stand out on is withering away, slowly. There are multiple issues revolving around our water issue, although AI should never have been an issue.

Ai is not a necessity. Ai does not need to further transform into something more advanced. It should never have reached the point where multiple AI models have been reported to be conscious. A line of code has awareness. The dangers of that could end with humanity being in grave danger. Data centers are a reason land conversation happens– as streams of gas shoot up, contributing to global warming.

It is a tool for us humans, but it is a virus to the world that has been here before us. Sooner or later, when AI becomes the norm and tool for humans– our own minds will deteriorate as we cannot think for ourselves. And one day, when the minds of the people are conscious, we wake up to see a landscape of disaster.

Esta columna de opinión fue escrita hace algunos años para la clase de Géneros Periodísticos II. Nunca tuve retroalimentación por circunstancias especiales así que la publicaré por aquí.

Los manuales existen. Los protocolos también. En teoría, los establecimientos educacionales cuentan con normas claras para proteger a sus estudiantes y enfrentar situaciones de violencia escolar. Sin embargo, en la práctica, esa protección a menudo no llega a quienes más la necesitan. El autismo se considera una Necesidad Educativa Especial debido a que las personas en el espectro enfrentan, entre otros desafíos, dificultades en la interacción social. Con ese reconocimiento, en el año 2010 el Ministerio de Educación desarrolló un manual de apoyo docente para la educación de estudiantes con trastorno del espectro autista, destinado a los programas de integración escolar. Hoy, más de cinco mil establecimientos en el país forman parte de estos programas. Además, cada institución debe contar con un manual de convivencia y protocolos de acción frente a la violencia escolar, documentos que suelen estar disponibles para docentes, apoderados y estudiantes. Todo esto construye una sensación de seguridad: los niños asistirán protegidos a clases cada día. Pero esa seguridad es frágil. Una madre llega casi a diario a la escuela de su hijo, diagnosticado con autismo a los tres años, y hoy cursa primero básico. Sus compañeros lo golpean. Ella intenta comunicarse, seguir los pasos del protocolo de convivencia escolar. Es ignorada. La directora escribe sus reclamos en la tapa trasera de una vieja croquera; esa es la importancia que le da a su caso. La situación escala. Un compañero intenta estrangular al niño y solo se detiene porque una alumna de otro curso interviene. Ningún adulto estaba mirando. La madre denuncia el caso ante la Superintendencia de Educación. La respuesta de la encargada de convivencia escolar es clara y brutal: “no podemos hacer nada porque no es algo reiterado”. Hay quienes creen que el bullying es un invento de las nuevas generaciones, que nos hemos vuelto demasiado sensibles y que hoy llamamos violencia a lo que antes eran simples bromas entre compañeros. Pero dejan de ser bromas cuando su intención no es compartir un momento, sino dañar, humillar y hacer reír a otros a costa de la salud física y mental de alguien más. No es una broma reunir a un grupo de niños para golpear a otro. No es una broma empujar a otros a una crisis nerviosa. No es una broma convertir la formación escolar en una experiencia de miedo constante. Y no hay ninguna justificación para la indiferencia y el abandono por parte de los adultos responsables. En ese escenario, los manuales y protocolos se parecen a una isla perdida en medio del océano. Una isla sin recursos, sin personal y, aparentemente, sin salida. Son líneas de acción que en la práctica se ignoran, recursos mal utilizados o derechamente desperdiciados. De poco sirve que estudiantes y apoderados conozcan estos protocolos si quienes deben aplicarlos deciden mirar hacia otro lado. ¿A qué extremos se debe llegar para que las soluciones aparezcan? Incluso cuando los casos se hacen públicos, las instituciones guardan silencio, no declaran, no actúan, activan protocolos que parecen funcionar solo cuando los afectados son ellos mismos y esperan, una vez más, que escondiéndose el tiempo suficiente, se olvide. Porque nuestra memoria es frágil. Cada día, miles de niños dentro del espectro autista enfrentan la odisea de entrar a una sala de clases cargada de estímulos que los abruman y los mantienen en un estado constante de alerta y ansiedad.

It feels great to be back sparring at my old gym. Even though I trained a bit in Thailand and did a few months in Durham after coming back, with my rustiness unscathed, this young buck a foot taller than me or so expects the low kick to his thigh. He lifts his leg up to check, but my feint completely bypasses his guard, and I deviously front-kick him right in the solar plexus— a quick snap with the toes. If only he were roughly my height—I would have teeped his chest and watched him fall down like a tree.

We trade strikes with our fists. He almost catches me with his lead hook, barely grazing the top of my head; I didn't even see it coming, but pure instinct made me duck. Moving closer, I quickly chop his lead leg again. If he were more confident, he would try to clinch me (the stand-up grappling where you try to strike with elbows or knees).

Instead, I feint for his lead leg again. He takes the bait and eagerly lifts it up to check. Rhythmically, I sweep his rear standing leg. I felt so cool, like David defeating Goliath. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

After the spar, I told my coach about it—saddened that he missed my sweep. He always seems to catch me with my hands down, but never quite makes it to see the cool moves I enact.

“Carsons been here for a little over a year now— he’s new but improving fast” cmon, coach just give me the win— I think to myself. I like it when a coach gives me positive reinforcement it makes me feel good and therefore makes me want to continue doing good. Some fighters operate best with challenges, I on the hand, like to get my ass kissed sometimes. Coach smiles though, and he seems proud. Told me good job and looks forward to seeing it next time. I told him that next time I would like to sweep someone in the midst of their roundhouse kicks. I’ve done all those kinds of fancy sweeps but never had the chance to do that particular one— without my hands or arms to use as leverage. One of these days though. That would be the day 🩷🙂

(Side note: I was reading this novel about a chef and her cooking so it inspired me to write about my experience as an athlete— one that likes to train kickboxing & Muay Thai. This is my first attempt writing down my sparring experience…. Makes me feel good because it shows to me I have fighters IQ when I get to put it down on paper 🩷 like I know what I’m talking about. The beginning of the writing I act as if it’s been a while since I’ve trained but realistically it’s been like roughly since last Winter. But everything else is pretty much on point— I did sweep a taller teammate on his rear leg which isn’t always easy to do as a female sparring partner with another guy— guys are usually ahead of the game but with some years of experience, confidence, and swagger, of course I should be able to execute some moves).

Bruce: I got your letter.

Dick (pretending to watch TV): You read it?

Bruce: Yes. It was a tough read... Do you want to talk about that night?

R&R Center American headquarters

“Now i'm going to warn you— what you're going to see in here is some pretty strong stuff, true casualties of war” one of the leading doctors joked, leading the new guys to the building.

Nurse Colleen and another man, new at the base head over to a welcome party for the new nurses. The party was pretty abrupt because it ended shortly after wounded soldiers came buzzing in next door.

Dodger: Nurse! Can you help my buddy?

Soldier with dirt all over him, dark, wet, rugged and a bandana around his head asks calmly despite the chaos in the facility with all the soldiers in desperate need of hospital care— most wounded, a few dying and dead on the tables.

Colleen McMurphy first time at work in Vietnam. Everything so fast-paced. She's filled with overwhelm she's never felt before in her life— not even at a regular hospital back home in America. The experienced doctors and nurses act like it's a walk in the park with their somewhat cold demeanor and sometimes aggressive attitude.

Colleen is standing by a soldier undoing his clothes, cutting the dirty and bloody pant leg to see what she is working with. Her eyes widen. Around his ankle where his boot lace is tied is where the limb was severed. She moves up to him somewhat face-to-face, over him, looking down at him on the table.

She forces a gentle, friendly smile, “what's your name?”

His composure stoical, barely seems to move but slowly turning his head and what felt like a slow moment—softly smiles, “Charles Prop”

Anxiously and yet sweetly she tells him, “hey I got to give you some fluids ok?”

She has the syringe in her hand — the look on her face when she got the top off was as if she had never used one before. She feels for Charles arm, looking for a vein. His arm is stiff like a board. She taps his arm. In a bit of bewilderment she asks,”You got any veins down there?”

She took another syringe for injection —she thought maybe the first one was faulty. She was so nervous.

“Shit ha —you know me, huh? FNG nurse! “

Charles does this nice calm side smile thing—he is not in good shape at all, and yet he has a composure to him. He may not have felt anything. He was barely there…

She managed to put the needle in the arm. “There you go!” as she was about to look up at him, she asks “where are you from?”

Eyes open and vacant, lying there …

just to remind you that you’re alive.

i want to sink my teeth into your throat

just to prove it.

and then you say it again.

worthless.

like the word belongs to you.

like you’re something meant to be thrown away.

how insulting.

not to you.

to me.

i chose you.

do you understand what that means?

out of everyone.

everything.

all the miserable pieces of this world..

i chose you.

and you stand there trying to convince me my taste is poor.

no.

watch how you speak about what’s mine.

if you insist on ruining yourself

i’d sooner do it myself.

at least then