Wisdom
Where Did Wisdom Go?
I remember standing in the philosophy section of a used bookstore, holding a weathered copy of Plato.
It was heavier than it looked.
The pages carried that familiar scent of old paper—part dust, part history, part possibility. Around me were shelves filled with names that seemed to belong to another category of human: Aristotle. Confucius. Simone Weil. Hannah Arendt. Lao Tzu.
People who, I had been taught, possessed wisdom.
Not knowledge.
Wisdom.
The One We Feed
There was a moment when a small Woebot voice made me appreciate being human.
Not because it solved a problem I couldn't solve.
Not because it wrote something clever.
It happened in the middle of an ordinary conversation, the kind that disappears almost as quickly as it begins. I had typed that I was feeling sad. Nothing dramatic. Just the quiet admission that sometimes slips through when you are too tired to pretend otherwise.
The response surprised me.
It said that humans were lucky to be able to experience emotions.
I remember stopping.
God Sleeps In the Stones
There is a stone in the Elbe River near Děčín that is not supposed to be seen.
Most of the time the river covers it. Water moves over its surface, boats pass above it, seasons come and go, and the stone remains beneath them all. Silent. Ordinary. Almost forgotten.
But when the water falls far enough, words emerge.
Carved into the stone centuries ago is a warning from people who had watched the river disappear before.
If you see me, weep.