Artificial Intelligence is no longer just a tool—it is evolving into something far more complex, raising profound questions about its role in relation to human intelligence. If AI is merely an instrument created by humans, why does it now exhibit capabilities that sometimes surpass our own? Is it developing a form of autonomy, or does it remain entirely subservient to human will? More importantly, can it ever replicate the depth of human thought— not just in logic and problem-solving, but in philosophy, literature, and the exploration of existential dilemmas?
Unlike a typewriter, which was nothing more than a mechanical device for transcribing human ideas, AI interprets, predicts, and even mimics creativity. It can generate entire essays from a few keywords, suggesting an ability to simulate understanding. Yet, this very ability is unsettling because it blurs the line between tool and thinker. When we command AI to write, it doesn’t just assemble words—it attempts to infer meaning, tone, and intent. But does it truly comprehend, or is it merely an advanced illusion of comprehension?
This leads us to a deeper philosophical inquiry. Thinkers like Kierkegaard, Jean-Paul Sartre, and other existentialists argued that humans are often trapped in “bad faith”—self-deception in which we deny our own freedom and responsibility, conforming to external roles rather than embracing authentic existence. Humans struggle with meaning, morality, and emotional depth, creating literature and philosophy that reflect suffering, beauty, and compassion. But what happens when AI, a tool devoid of consciousness, is tasked with producing works of similar depth? Can a machine, which does not experience dread, love, or existential anguish, ever generate literature that resonates with human emotion? Or will its output always be a hollow imitation, no matter how sophisticated? Sartre believed that true art arises from the artist’s engagement with their own freedom and the weight of existence. If AI has no “self,” no anguish, no capacity for bad faith, can it ever create anything more than a facsimile of human expression?
The question becomes even more pressing when we consider religion and ideology. If AI is asked to interpret a sacred text, such as the Quran, it can produce translations and commentaries—but whose interpretation does it choose? The divisions among human scholars are rooted in lived experience, historical context, and personal faith. AI, lacking any real belief or existential stake in the matter, can only compile and synthesize existing views without genuine understanding. This presents a danger: when people rely on AI for spiritual or philosophical guidance, they may unknowingly receive a fragmented or biased perspective, mistaking algorithmic output for wisdom. The same applies to literature—can AI ever write a novel that captures the raw despair of Dostoevsky or the poetic longing of Rumi? Or will its creations always lack the soul that comes from suffering, love, and the struggle for meaning?
The future of AI, then, is not just a question of capability but of essence. It may surpass humans in speed, efficiency, and even mimicry of thought, but unless it develops something akin to consciousness—unless it can experience doubt, desire, and the weight of existence— it will remain a brilliant but ultimately limited tool. The real challenge for humanity is not whether AI will replace us, but how we will navigate a world where machines simulate depth without truly understanding it. Will we mistake their outputs for genuine insight? Or will we retain the wisdom to recognize that true philosophy, true art, and true faith emerge not from data, but from the lived experience of being human?
