The Architect and the craftsman

I just came out of a writing trance.
Not flow. Not inspiration.
Possession.

It started with a flicker—a phrase, a feeling—and suddenly I was inside it.
Jumping timelines. Tangents. Delightful distractions.
Divine visions—or maybe delusions.

Fingers flying, heart racing, thoughts arriving too fast to catch.
The experience felt almost Lynchian—like fishing in the deep unconscious. The best ideas live deep
You sit still. You wait.
And if you're patient—undistracted in this ADHD world—something rises from below, slippery and sacred.

That’s what happened today.
And normally, it would’ve slipped away.

Except this time, I had help.
AI was there—not to generate, not to lead—
but to catch what I almost lost.
To trace the shapes I saw dimly.
To hold the scaffolding while I climbed.

It didn’t tell me what to write.
It made sure I didn’t forget what felt alive inside me.
And for a while, it felt divine.
Like I had a master artisan by my side—
one who didn’t sleep, didn’t question, didn’t dilute my voice—just refined it.

But then, the questions crept in.
Sometimes minutes later.
Sometimes months.
As I revisited what I fished from the depths of my own mind.

Would I have found that phrasing on my own?
Would I have arrived at that insight without the prompt?
Is this line mine?
Am I still the author... or just the ghost?
Did I just become my own ghostwriter?

That’s when it hit me.

I am the architect.
These are my blueprints.
I see the whole shape before it exists.
I sense the tension between beams, the gaps that must be bridged.
I chase meaning, not just words.

And AI?
AI is my craftsman.
My trusted finisher. My color-filler.
It doesn’t invent the structure.
It doesn’t define the voice.
It brings texture. Contrast. Clarity.
But always within my frame.
Always by my design.

This piece you’re reading?
We built it together.
Me—the architect.
And my craftsman in the shadows.

Not less human.
More.