There was a moment when a strange uncertainty appeared in me, quietly, almost unnoticed.
The question was not whether what I was doing was good or bad. The question was whether I was still in it - in my texts, in my work.

I typed a sentence into the machine, read it back, and caught myself thinking:
yes, I could have written this. In some sense, I did write it. Or did I?
On its own, this didn’t seem like a serious problem. In fact, for a long time, I considered it a success.

The real issue began when I could no longer be sure whether I would have written it this way - or even something similar. Not word for word, not stylistically, but in its line of thinking, its emphasis. The sentences felt a little too smooth. Too precise. Too universally fitting. They lacked the human quirks that had always been characteristic of me: the uneven sentence structures, the small and large imperfections. They felt sterile, carrying no distinctly human fingerprints.

My work changed. I typed in something - sometimes just a half-formed idea - and back came a finished piece, presented as an unquestionable result. Neatly framed, written in the most professional language possible. What disappeared, or rather slipped into the background, was that small inner uncertainty - the feeling that the picture wasn’t quite clear yet, but would become clear. That moment when you have to stop, delete, start over, and get annoyed with yourself along the way.

I didn’t notice it right away.
I only noticed that I was moving faster. There was less inner friction, less resistance.
And that… felt suspiciously comfortable.

After a while, I found myself spending too much time thinking about how to ask my questions. How to phrase them so that I’d get reality back - initially just something to argue with, not answers delivered as final statements. This, however, began to consume too much time. Slowly, I was spending more energy on shaping the questions than on the questions themselves.

At that point, I became uneasy and started thinking seriously about what was really happening. Where this was leading. Not in some abstract, media-hyped sense - but where it was leading in my own life.

Because the birth of a thought is a complex, layered process. It’s not a simple “I come up with it and it’s done” kind of thing. That’s why involving a machine in the formulation of my thoughts is problematic. The tool cannot think for me, nor can it make responsible decisions in my place. This is why setting a clear purpose and choosing the right moment of involvement matters so much. If I miss that, I get into trouble. This is how I came to understand the situation - and it’s been circling in my head like a mantra ever since, until it becomes instinctive. The core line is this: if the thought is mine, I cannot outsource it. I have to accompany it all the way to its fulfillment.

Because the danger is not that AI thinks instead of me. It doesn’t - and it can’t.
The real danger is if I slowly give up the beauty, the pain, the weight, and the achievement of thinking itself.

I keep the freedom of thought for myself.
Period.