When everything fell apart, they pointed fingers.
They needed someone to blame.
And I handed them the perfect scapegoat:
Artificial Intelligence.
It became the villain.
The cheap trick.
The machine that wrote the words that ruined the dream.
But AI didn’t stand in that warehouse.
AI didn’t dream of a world built out of sugar and wonder.
AI didn’t refund the families or face the interviews or collapse in the shower with shame in its mouth.
I did.
The script wasn’t the failure.
The infrastructure was.
The pressure.
The limitations.
The desperation to create something beyond what my resources allowed.
Yes, I used AI to shape the story.
To edit.
To enhance.
To find the tone I couldn’t always reach on my own.
But the script wasn’t the problem.
The story was born from me.
And so was the collapse.
They blamed the robot.
They should’ve seen the man behind it.
The exhausted, hopeful, frantic man
trying to build joy out of broken parts.
Trying to keep the illusion alive
when reality was closing in like fire.
They blamed AI because it was easier
than seeing a human being burn in real time.
What they got wrong is thinking I hid behind a tool.
I stood in front of it.
Took the blows.
Owned the failure.
Faced the ridicule.
But still—people laughed.
Mocked the voice in the script like it wasn’t a reflection of me.
Turned fragments of a dream into memes
and forgot that there was someone bleeding behind the binary.
I don’t deny I used AI.
But I never used it to lie.
I used it the way a drowning man uses driftwood.
Not to deceive.
To stay afloat.
And now?
Now I write everything myself.
Because I have to.
Because every word must come through the wound, not around it.
They blamed the AI.
But it wasn’t the AI that broke.
It wasn’t the AI that cried.
It wasn’t the AI that nearly didn’t get back up.
That was me.
And I’m still here.
Not perfect.
But human.
Always human.