There was a moment when the sentence could have continued.
The structure was clear.
The logic made sense.
The AI was ready to finish it better than I could.
That was the problem.
The risk was never that AI would be wrong.
It was that it would be complete.
Completion resolves tension.
It explains.
It reassures.
But the worlds I’m building don’t survive reassurance.
They survive hesitation.
Every time AI offered clarity, it felt like a door closing.
So I began listening for a different signal —
the moment I felt tempted to let it decide.
That temptation often arrived as polish.
As efficiency.
As something that “reads better.”
What it really asked was simple:
Do I want this to be understood, or felt?
I use AI to see structure, not to speak for me.
To test weight, not to finish the thought.
Because the sentence that matters most is the one left incomplete —
the one that remains after the signal drops,
when silence returns,
and something still feels present.
That silence is not a failure.
It’s a choice.
