The problem nowadays is that, no matter how genuine your imagination and writing are, or how real your drawings, paintings, or social media posts are — no matter how creative and talented one is... everyone now assumes that they were done by AI. Source: DALL-E/OpenAI Just remember that the messy, imperfect, vulnerable, and perhaps inelegant parts of a text are reflections of the human experience. Humans create an authentic connection between themselves and their audience. Their descriptions are visceral, their traumas may transpire through their writing. There is emotional depth in what humans write versus what AI produces. AI can simulate the emotional tone in a story, but it cannot genuinely feel it. Thus, it cannot convey that depth. Humans do that. Seeing a text that is well written, with correct grammar and elegance, is not an indicator that it was written by AI. This kind of reasoning is flawed — it’s a fallacy. Human creativity has depth; it’s cinematic, it conveys visceral emot...

Every now and then, someone crosses my path at just the right moment — a person I didn’t expect, who turns out to be exactly what I needed. Help appears in ways I could never have planned. That happened today. I’m still not sure how to describe it without sounding a little odd, but it left a deep impression on me. After a lovely visit to an Experimental Farm with my son, we started our way back to the parking lot. I was using a cane, limping along, as my knees were hurting. Off in the distance, I noticed a young woman driving a golf cart. I didn’t think much of it and never considered asking for a ride. But she must have noticed us, because she turned and came directly toward us. She stopped and asked how we were doing, if we were enjoying our visit. Then she said, “Are you leaving now?” I told her we were, and that we’d had a lovely time. Without hesitation she offered to drive us back to the car. I accepted, telling her it was a lucky break because I was in a lot of pain. Then I look...

Leilah woke up and the room spun as she began to move. She turned her head, looked around, and pondered for a minute or two — "I hope I have more energy today." She sat up, sighed, and reached for her pills and the glass of water on her nightstand. She swallowed her meds, jotting down the time and dosage in her notebook. Leilah remained seated for another couple of minutes, grasping tightly at her knees and whispering a silent prayer. Her body ached; the crepitus in her joints — the dry creaking sound of narrowed joint spaces — made her cringe. Her neck, back, and knees hurt. She slid off the bed and stood, waiting a few seconds for the dizziness to subside. "Okay," she thought, "better get going." Leilah completed her morning routine and headed down to the main floor. The house, which was once lively with her kids’ voices, her husband’s warmth, and the dogs’ playfulness, was now silent. The dogs were long gone, her husband had passed away a few years bac...

When a Parent Loves a Child... Image by Karen Nadine - Pixabay  When a parent loves a child... They support, Advise, Praise, And guide. When a parent loves a child… They speak with wisdom’s grace, They lift them when they fall, They make home a safe embrace They offer truth, not shadows— Correction wrapped in care, A steady voice, a warming light That tells the child, “I’m there.” When a parent loves a child… They do not connive against them, They do not lie, Or keep secrets, They do not steal from them. When a parent loves a child… They do not strike, nor shame, They do not degrade with names, Or wound with touch or blame. When a parent loves a child... They never turn the sacred Into something to endure. They do not place their child In fear they must obscure. If a parent… Lies, Humiliates, Steals, Connives, And cuts them off from kin and kindness— That’s not love. That’s just hatred in disguise. And that child , Grown but aching still, Will forever s...

Can I Call Myself a Writer by Marie Bonet It’s night time. I’m 14 years old. Brazil. The ocean breeze inebriates me. I like to read, write, and daydream. I have a best friend who also loves to write. We are inseparable at school. We start writing stories — mini-novels — just for fun. I write one chapter, she writes the next. Back and forth, and then we read what we wrote. We collect many notebooks filled with stories. We keep them in a box and take turns keeping them safe. --- It’s night time. I’m 18 years old. Brazil. The scent of textbooks lingers in the air. People talk. A bell rings. Exciting new things are happening — for both my friend and me. We go to different universities and take different paths. I still love to write. I venture into poetry and short stories. Compositions. I write and read them many times. My hand is sore from all the writing. No notebooks now — just loose sheets of paper. I don’t show them to anyone. I just put them in a drawer. --- It’s night time. I’m 28 y...

 Musings One day, while resting as I tried to recover from a nasty cold, I kept watching the big dog I was fostering. He was playing, and my mind started to wander, philosophizing as I often tend to do in my quiet moments. The dog was not fixed, you see, and the more I watched him, the more I got to thinking... Well, first, let me explain that, as a person who teaches anatomy and physiology and is used to talking about body parts and functions, it is natural for me to think about some things that the layperson may not think of all the time. I have a bit of a clinical eye, if you will. Plus, being me, this unorthodox, out-of-the-box type of thinking is actually not uncommon at all. So, please do not get offended by what is coming. Well then, as I watched my dog frolic around with his toy, I suddenly fixated on his testicles dangling and bouncing like happy golf balls. In my contemplative (and feverish) state, that got me thinking even more... Why in heck did nature create males with...