My day job lives in logic. Models, datasets, evaluation metrics, error margins. I spend hours teaching machines how to recognize patterns, predict outcomes, and optimize decisions. Everything is measurable, reproducible, and structured. And yet, when the lab lights dim and the servers hum into the background, I open a notebook and write poems about robots.
It started as a joke — a way to unwind after debugging experiments that refused to converge. I wrote a short poem about a robot learning what loneliness might feel like if circuits could ache. The words surprised me. They weren’t technical. They were human. And somehow, they made my research feel more meaningful.
Working in artificial intelligence forces you to confront uncomfortable questions. What does intelligence really mean? Is understanding the same as awareness? Can a system simulate empathy without possessing it? Poetry lets me explore those questions without equations. It gives emotion to abstraction and vulnerability to algorithms.
I don’t believe machines will suddenly become poets. But I do believe humans need art to stay grounded while building powerful tools. When everything becomes optimization, something fragile gets lost. Writing reminds me that uncertainty, contradiction, and imagination are not bugs — they’re features of being alive.
Sometimes my colleagues laugh when they hear about my poetry. Other times, they ask to read it. The reactions are always curious. People secretly crave softness in technical spaces. We just don’t talk about it enough.
What fascinates me most is the mirror effect. When I write about robots longing for meaning, I’m really writing about myself — about curiosity, doubt, hope, and the strange responsibility of shaping the future through code.
Science builds capability. Art builds conscience. Living between both keeps me balanced. I don’t want to create machines that merely calculate faster. I want to remain human while creating them — curious, flawed, imaginative, and emotionally awake.
In the end, maybe the real experiment isn’t teaching machines to think. Maybe it’s teaching ourselves how to feel while we build them.