Monks in the 15th century spent their lives painstakingly recreating the scriptures, but when the printing press came out, it could render their life’s work in moments. Our condition is like those of the monks, except that we are cursed with painful foresight.
There is no art, music, writing, or discovery today that will not be outshined by a future superintelligence – even this essay. For many people, this realization has rendered a great disillusionment.
The absurdity of my own condition dawned on me a few years ago, with the first wave of large language models. It was clear that, as a software developer, any code I write today would be rewritten by artificial intelligence within a few years. This disillusionment spread to other areas of my life, including composing and writing.
But technology had only awakened deeper truths that were always there. Our actions were always meaningless in the grand calculus. We were always pushing a boulder up the hill, but only today we see the cranes around us. We must rekindle our childhood ethos, in which meaning was found in the act itself, rather than the fruits. Like the Buddhists who spend months painting elaborate mandalas only to clear them away without hesitation, we must embrace the absurdity.
For me, this process has been challenging. Yet, over time my anxiety has transfigured into a newfound freedom. I’ve tried to find value in doing things for their inherent, non-utilitarian value. Sometimes, it’s meditating and often, it’s simply doing nothing: maybe watching the clouds outside my window.
Recently, I’ve taken time off from my studies to learn tango. Riding motorcycles and practicing Spanish perhaps have relatively little instrumental value, and for what is more absurd than dancing in a burning building. Our remaining time on this planet may be much shorter than we realize, so let us not go gentle into the good night.