Prompts That Kill

The slow death of human creativity in a world of one-word magic

There was a time when creating something meant becoming something. You didn’t just wake up and call yourself a musician, a writer, or an artist—you earned it. You put in the hours, fought through doubt, sweat through practice, and chipped away at your own limits until your craft was more than a label—it was your life.

Now?
All you need is a prompt.

I used to think app culture was the beginning of the end. Templates, filters, presets—it all felt lazy. But now? That’s nothing compared to what we’ve unleashed with prompts. One word, one line, and boom—you’ve “created” a symphony, written a novel, illustrated a masterpiece. You didn’t have to learn a single chord, study any structure, or even think beyond a vague idea. You just typed a sentence fragment and waited for the magic.

Can’t draw? No problem—AI will do it for you.
Can’t play an instrument? Just type “dark synthwave groove” and boom, you’re a producer.
Want to write a movie? Throw in “space cowboy betrayal” and in seconds you’ve got a three-act screenplay.

Where’s the struggle? Where’s the soul?

As a multi-instrumentalist, I’ve spent decades mastering my craft. Thousands of hours behind the drums, finding my own groove. Endless sessions with guitars, bass, piano—learning their voices, how they speak. That journey is the art. It’s not just the final recording—it’s the fingerprints all over the process.

But now, everything’s being pushed through this cold filter of efficiency and perfection. And I worry—deeply—about the cost.

What happens when everything is easy?
What happens when no one has to learn, or try, or even care?

We already live in a world where human interaction is vanishing. No more small talk at the checkout—just scan your items. No more paying with cash—just tap your phone. Conversations have been replaced with texts, and now those texts can be pre-written by AI so you don’t even have to think of what to say. Just hit send.

They say a brain chip is coming. Elon Musk talks about merging with machines. But the truth is, you won’t even need that chip. AI is already writing your emails, suggesting your next purchase, recommending your weekend plans, and soon—if not already—it’ll be creating your art, your stories, your music.

It’s already predicting your life.
So what’s left for you to do?

I fear for the next generation.
What’s going to get them out of bed in the morning if everything can be done by a prompt?

No struggle means no growth. No effort means no pride. And no imperfection means no truth.
We’re building a culture where real, flawed, beautiful human expression is becoming worthless—laughed at, dismissed, compared to algorithmic perfection and always found wanting.

But not me.

I don’t use AI to make music. Never have. Never will. Every take I’ve ever done is raw. Real. If the tempo slips? So be it. If I hit a note off-center? That’s me, not a machine. Every recording I’ve made is full of soul, mistakes and all. I still press record and play straight through. One take. No cheats. No prompts.

Because that’s what art is supposed to be.
Human.

There’s a deep sadness I feel—watching the world hand its soul over to the machines. Watching leaders sell out the future. Watching creativity get gutted and sold for cheap likes and generated perfection. It’s like we’re living in the first chapter of Rush’s “2112.” If you haven’t heard that album—go listen to it. It’s all there. The warning. The prophecy. The tragedy.

(And yeah, I could write a whole post about how music has been cheapened, how real players can barely scrape by anymore while AI tracks get pushed by the algorithm... but I’ll save that for next time.)

Here’s a thought that haunts me:
What if all of this—AI, robots, automation—wasn’t about progress?
What if it’s a replacement?

Because behind the scenes, birthrates are dropping. Humanity is fading. Some estimates say we’re on track for collapse by 2068. And when that day comes—when we’re gone, or near it—there won’t be anyone left to type a prompt. There’ll just be silence. And maybe then, people will long for the days when someone could strum a guitar and make you feel something.

When a voice could crack and still carry more truth than a thousand polished lines.

Until that day, I’ll keep creating the hard way.
No prompts. No presets. Just heart.

And if you're out there doing the same—don’t stop.
Because the machines can never replicate your soul.