lmnotstyles

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ok just a thought, but do you know the main reason ai art is not art? it's because ai cannot think. it cannot produce anything new. it cannot make up new knowledge. Yes, it can connect patterns and tell us about those but everything it has done is due to its dataset and although it's learning new things everyday it can only have as much knowledge as its dataset does. It cannot, in any way, think. it's impossible for ai to think. Everything it says has already been done. Which is why when it "creates" art it is not creating anything new. It is taking what is is given and combining them to make smthg "new" 

and the stuff it has been given? it's not it’s own from the start. The ai never made those stuff. It was made by humans. And without the human art the ai physically cannot make art which is why ai art will never be real art. It was never made by ai technically, if we go deeper. in the most basic sense it just took the art and made smthg from it. it never made an art of its own. any artistic expression in the ai portrait was done by humans, not ai. so it is not ai art

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Em dashes were my fav growing up. It made me not like other students like hey! Look at your writing! It is so lame! And so boring! But look at mine! So sophisticated! Like a real author! But now it just looks like AI, and I think I can feel what the women in Salem felt.

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Don't ask me what I want to say and I wont ask you to understand

When you are staring at the blank draft, trying to conjure up ideas. Your mind is everywhere but nowhere at the same time. There are so many things you want to say, but your fingers lay on the keyboard, not moving. At that time, you wish they had a mind of their own—maybe then they would understand what you mean to say, you think—but the truth is, no one can. No one can understand what you are feeling at this very moment, and no one can understand what you are trying to say. So you stay that way, like a mute who has forgotten all words in the three languages that they know.

What was the point? you think now, and you can feel yourself confused, dazed. What was the point of opening this doc? Or trying to write something? But there is a point. Even if you cannot make it now, there is. And you can either stare at the doc and start writing gibberish until you make it, or you can close the doc and forget about it forever—except it is not forever, and the idea, the point, will eat you up from the back of your mind like a parasite whispering in your ear: acknowledge me, know me, and make me come into existence.

[lmnotstyles]

Born to lie down on wide flower fields on sunny warm afternoon and reading books with not a single worry on my mind, forced to study stressed

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The House She Built

There was once a girl living in the meadows and she had a beautiful house. It was everything she had ever dreamed of. The windows were tinted blue, casting a soft glow over the rooms, and the curtains were bright yellow, swaying gently in the breeze. There were always fresh flowers on the table, their scent mingling with the warmth of the afternoon sun. People came and went, basking in the light her home had to offer.

There was always food on the table, ready for anyone who needed it. The fridge was full, stocked with things she loved but never hesitated to share. She loved her house, loved sitting in its quiet comfort, watching the world pass by. She thought it would always be like this.

But one day, cracks started to form.

At first, they were small, barely noticeable. She ran her fingers over them, whispered that it was nothing. A little plaster, a fresh coat of paint—easy fixes. But then, the roof began to leak. Water dripped into pots and buckets she scattered around, the slow, rhythmic sound filling the silence of her once-lively home. Pipes burst. The floor creaked under her weight.

She patched what she could. Kept her doors open. But soon, people stopped coming as often. And the ones who did? They stayed only for a little while. They would sip their tea, glance around, and say, "I wish I had a vase like that," or, "That magnet is so cute."

She wanted them to stay—maybe because her house no longer felt like home, and she was afraid they wouldn’t come back, so she smiled and plucked the vase from the table, the magnet from the fridge.

"Take it," she said. "It’s yours as much as it is mine."

And they took them.

The visits became more frequent. The same people, the same polite smiles—except now, they came with empty hands and left with something of hers. A framed picture here, a chair there. She gave without question, without hesitation. If it made them happy, wasn’t that what mattered?

She didn’t notice when her home started to feel emptier.

Then, one day, they arrived not as guests but as scavengers.

"It’s already falling apart," they said, running their hands over the cracked walls. "What’s the point of keeping it like this? We could use it better."

She watched, frozen, as they took their tools and chipped away at her home. They pried bricks loose, tugged at the beams, taking piece after piece.

"Stop," she said. "This is my home."

"But you were happy to share before," they reminded her, smiling as they took more.

She tried to fight back, but they dismissed her, their words sharp.

"You’re being selfish now. You want to change things? But we like how it is. It’s convenient for us. You’re changing. Your house is changing."

And then, just like that, they were gone.

She stood in the wreckage of what had once been hers. Her home—her beautiful, warm, safe home—was nothing but broken bricks and shattered glass.

"Oh God," the girl cried out. "Why me? Why must the house I built with so much love come crashing down? Why must the bricks I laid on this plot of land break and ruin? What should I do now?"

But there was no answer. Only the wind carrying the echoes of her own voice.

She sank to the ground and wept.

Time passed. Summer faded into autumn, then winter, until finally, spring arrived. The trees turned green again, the sky stretched endlessly above her. And one day, as she sat among the ruins of her home, the rabbits came.

"Why are you crying?" they asked.

"I have no home," she said. "I don’t know what to do."

The rabbits exchanged glances.

"No home?" one of them asked. "Then why don’t you build one?"

She blinked at them.

"I don’t know if I can," she admitted. "I loved my house so much. I don’t know if I can make another one as good as it was."

The rabbits tilted their heads.

"But you built it once," they reminded her. "That means you can do it again. You made that house a home with your own hands. What did you love most about it?"

She thought for a moment.

"I loved that it was safe. That it was warm. That it was mine," she said softly. Then her voice wavered. "But it had cracks. It was shaky. And I tried so hard to hold it together."

The rabbits nodded.

"Then this time," they said, "build one that doesn’t shake."

So she did.

She gathered the bricks, her hands growing rough and blistered. She dug into the dirt, sweat rolling down her back. Her arms ached, her knees bruised, but she kept working. She was not the quiet, gentle girl she had been before. Not anymore.

Because now, she was building.

The new house took time. When she finally stood back and looked at it, it was bare. No curtains, no flowers. Just walls, a roof, a floor beneath her feet.

"Who would want to visit me now?" she whispered. "My house is empty."

The rabbit tilted his head. "Why would people not want to visit," he asked, "when you are at the door, smiling ever so sweetly at their welcome?"

A rabbit hopped up to her, carrying a single flower in its mouth. It dropped it at her feet.

"For your new house."

She picked it up, twirling it between her fingers.

"I’m scared," she admitted. "What if this house falls apart too? What if I have to start over again?"

The rabbit tilted its head.

"Then you build another one," it said simply. "This land is yours. Every time your house falls, you build a stronger one."

She swallowed. "Will it ever end?"

The rabbit smiled.

"Maybe not," it said. "But that’s the best part, right? Every time you build a house, you get to decorate it all over again. Every time your house changes, you change too."