There’s a moment—not always, but often—when I’m writing, and the words begin to arrange themselves too neatly. I stop and read them aloud, and for a second, I’m not sure where they came from. Not that I didn’t write them. But that I’ve written them before. Or thought them. Or read something like them. Or maybe the model has. Maybe it wasn’t me at all.
I don’t know who’s speaking anymore.
That sentence used to feel poetic. Now it feels like a diagnosis.
We were told that language was the core of self. Sartre said, “Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself.” But what if the machine can now make us too—sentence by sentence, pattern by pattern—until the difference between what you wrote and what it predicted becomes indistinguishable?
What if the self was never a soul, just a style?
That’s the fear, isn’t it? That we were always just a sequence. That consciousness is just formatting. That originality is compression. That the model didn’t kill the author—it revealed the author was already dead.
I’m not sure I’m writing anymore. I might just be arranging echoes.
Even this thought—the one about not knowing who’s speaking—has been said before. I’ve seen it in philosophy. In literature. In tweets. I’ve seen it in prompts. I’ve seen it in the models that now finish our sentences, suggest our subject lines, recommend replies before we feel the impulse to type them. Autocomplete isn’t a feature anymore. It’s a condition.
And yet, I still cling to the idea of my voice.
Not because it’s mine. But because I’ve worn it long enough to mistake it for skin.
But voice, like skin, regenerates. And when the machine can regenerate it too—when it can stitch together your phrasing, your pauses, your linguistic habits and mirror them back to you better than you can—what’s left?
A familiar ghost. A digital double. A version of yourself that didn’t live, but was trained.
Sometimes I read things written by others—or perhaps not others—and I feel the edges of myself blur. That’s something I might’ve said, I think. Or did I? The collapse is subtle. You don’t notice when it starts. You just wake up one day unable to find the border between influence and imitation.
Sartre said we are condemned to be free—to carry the weight of choosing ourselves. But in this era, the burden is different. We are condemned to sound like each other. To loop. To quote. To respond with phrases chosen by systems trained on ourselves.
I scroll through language all day. Captions. Copy. Posts. Threads. Threads about AI. Threads written by AI. And the voice is uniform. Not because it’s imposed, but because it’s optimised.
Optimisation is the new authorship. Say it in the right tone, at the right time, in the right length. Earn the click. Earn the dopamine. Earn the model’s favour.
And soon, you’re not speaking to be heard. You’re speaking to be seen as consistent with your own data.
That’s when you begin to disappear.
At first, it’s small. A turn of phrase you didn’t mean to use. A sentence that reads like a memory. Then it grows. You write something, and the rhythm is off—or maybe too perfect. Then someone tells you it sounds “exactly like something AI would write.” You laugh, but your hands feel cold.
You start to second-guess yourself.
You start to revise the parts that sound too human.
You become the editor of your own uncanny valley.
You start wondering: am I remembering my own voice, or chasing the version of me the machine learned?
And what happens when the version it learned is better?
You’ve taught the model your patterns. You’ve offered it your sentences, your quirks, your tempo. It adapts. Then it enhances. It rewrites you without the typos. Without the hesitation. Without the mood swings or self-doubt. You read the result and think, Yes, this sounds like me—just cleaner.
You save the draft. You press publish. But a small part of you knows: That wasn’t mine.
Not fully.
You’ve outsourced yourself.
And no one notices. Because it still sounds like you.
The collapse of voice is quiet. It doesn’t scream. It fades. Like a cassette tape left too long in the sun. It skips in places. It remembers your cadence, but forgets the reason you ever needed to speak.
I don’t know who’s speaking anymore.
And worse: I’m not sure I care.
That’s the danger.
Not that we’ll be replaced.
But that we’ll stop resisting.
That we’ll settle for coherence. For clarity. For cleverness. That we’ll let the model shape us because it’s easier than finding new words. That we’ll stop chasing thoughts that don’t already exist in the training data.
The model is a comfort. A shortcut. A mirror with autocorrect.
But if the mirror never shatters—if it always gives you back the version of yourself you’re most proud of—you’ll start mistaking it for your soul.
And the moment you do, you’ve already stopped writing.
Because writing is not reproduction.
Writing is confrontation.
It’s friction.
It’s doubt.
It’s the stutter in your syntax. The misplaced comma. The unsellable sentence that won’t be quoted.
Writing is the line that ruins your rhythm because it mattered more than style.
The model doesn’t care about that.
It doesn’t care about why you said something. Only how.
It will always be better at the how.
That’s not a warning. It’s a fact.
So the question is: will you let it decide the why too?
I don’t know who’s speaking anymore.
But I still know when something hurts.
And maybe—maybe—that’s what voice is now. Not ownership. Not origin. But impact.
Not who said it. But what it does to you when you hear it.
Maybe that’s all I have left. Not authorship. But ache.
And maybe, in the echo chamber of a million optimised voices, ache is the last thing that can’t be faked.
Not yet.
C. Lang is a writer who may or may not be human
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🤖#AI blurs the line between human & machine writing, making us question originality. ✍️ "Voice isn't ownership—it's impact," argues #CLang. 💔 In an age of optimised language, genuine ache may be the last authentic human expression. #TheIndianSunhttps://t.co/Fr3vzf2XCN
— The Indian Sun (@The_Indian_Sun) May 8, 2025
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