Nature has led me down. Some argue it's one thing, others don't care, and meanwhile I stand betrayed. To say, as an example: the burned patch of land will recover, leaves but the comment of a hopeless romantic in harangued theory decompiling the canon which is their belief to the avail of nothing or anyone.
Have I betrayed nature? I dare not besmirch truth by siding with the ignorance of my non-professional view and understanding of what encompasses what my vision compiles. To say, the truth to the eye of one is the truth of all who have eyes, is to deny the existence of choice; worse, the pain of an inheritance in culture. What lies at the heart of the problem is the heart itself. Confounding as it is, to believe the heart can have opinion on its own beyond its many life-assisting tasks, we put our feeling(s) ahead of reason. This is not a new thing or a generational push for change, it is nature at its finest.
Do I know nature? I ask, does anyone truly know what nature is as it comes up in text or conversation, or is it always a presumptuous arrival of what the person presumably understands the topic to be? When in reference to fauna, I ponder, it stems from a group dynamic of belonging. For instance hunter/predator, herbivores, or other. When in flora, usually the dichotomy to which a group may belong to like perhaps aquatic fauna versus fauna, or more distinctly as something being native to the arctic regions, tropical, or other. For nature to have led me down without positing descriptors to which type, I suppose I mean the whole. To question whether I have let the collective it down… Perhaps I have. Can both exist simultaneously? To betray, be betrayed, and ultimately without blame accept a mutual betrayal; were nature to have a voice in this? In text, I can read it just fine, but I am having trouble contextualizing it….
I no longer feel nature. Conflict has always existed, but there are times when it appears to rise to seemingly unfathomable heights. It is the year 2025, at the time of writing, and writing itself bespoke of thought, consideration for a reading audience, choice of language structure, and more, I face the ever-invasive nature of artificial intelligence infringing upon my intellectual credibility by taking the very nature of who I am as a writer and converting it into a disambiguous, non-inventive, plagiarized monstrosity without the merit beheld of humans (of me). Is that the problem? Am I right to feel this way, or must I adapt an inclusive sense of acceptance to my having to live in a world where my words have been stolen, where my work is being mimicked without reproach, and ultimately making my works (such as this one) having questionable authenticity? The nature of things made for the assistance of humans has its own arena of unknowns that betrays a current subset of humans while others step on their shoulders of the betrayed for monetary purposes at first, before a good, bad, or both types of approach to whatever the new thing is are established. Yes, there is much conflict in me about this. I presume, other artists may share this lack of feeling towards that type of nature this year.
Nature is always adapting. Change is beneficial for the ones with the bombs, but not so much for the others. I am the others. I leave this non artificial intelligence paper by asking if we are right (or wrong) to hold nature in contempt, during the rise of unscrupulous A.I. in what feels to be a cumulative hate.
