I Didn't Need a Model, I Needed a Moment

By: Devanshi Tyagi

3rd year, B.A(Hons.) Sociology

Design & edited by: Ragini

If you haven’t jumped on the bandwagon of converting your images to Ghibli style, or if you haven’t already put a prompt on your favorite AI model and asked it to aid you with an assignment or a test while you decide whether the time saved in the bargain of the creativity lost was worth it, then you can consider yourself either a noble resistor of the age or a hesitant latecomer standing at the gates of a new world, unsure of whether to knock or run the other way. There is a war — quiet, digital, and deeply personal — playing out in minds and machines. On one side stands the allure of ease. Who wouldn’t want a robot sidekick who finishes your essay while you sip coffee and contemplate existence? Why shouldn’t your clunky idea be turned into poetry or code with a single click? The world moves fast, and AI seems like a gift — a friend who never gets tired, never forgets, and never judges you for asking the same question ten times.

But then there’s the other side: the artists, the thinkers, the skeptics. They argue that the moment we outsource creativity, we start to forget what it even feels like to create. That struggling with a blank page, failing multiple times before arriving at the right word, the right brushstroke, the right thought — that’s the point. It’s not about being efficient. It’s about being human. And yet, we keep outsourcing it. Because we want to save time. Because saving time is saving money. And saving money — whether in the form of fewer work hours, faster output, or less emotional labor — has become a modern virtue. But in this transaction, something slips away unnoticed. Saving money often means losing meaning.

We forget that time spent creating isn’t wasted. That those slow hours — frustrating, quiet, meandering — are where something real happens. Something that no shortcut can replicate. But the world doesn’t reward ‘slow’ anymore. We live by the clock, compete with machines, and celebrate productivity over process. The machine always delivers. It never says, “I’m not in the mood to write today.” And so we let it take over — little by little — not because we lack imagination, but because we are made to believe that we lack time and while the essence of art is lost, the human touch fades away with mass production taking over.

Still, some argue that AI is just a tool. That doesn’t replace creativity but expands it. You feed it your wildest thoughts and get back something half-formed, unexpected — a new starting point. Isn’t that collaboration? Isn’t that still you?

But here’s the thing: creativity was never purely about originality. Even the most brilliant human work stands on the shoulders of what came before. We are all inspired by the books we’ve read, the places we’ve been, the people we’ve loved, the heartbreaks we’ve buried. But we don’t draw things just because we see them. We don’t write things simply because they exist. We create because we feel. And feeling — raw, unpredictable, unfiltered — is something AI can mimic, but never truly know.

Emotions are not data. It’s not about patterns or probability. It’s about memory, about experience, about how a song can taste like a childhood you forgot or how a color can bring someone back from the dead — just for a second. That kind of creativity isn’t a formula. It’s a wound, a celebration, a silence, a scream. AI can replicate, yes. It can remix, echo, and imitate. But it cannot feel. And so, it cannot be created in the way we do — with trembling hands and trembling hearts.

That is what lies beyond the machine: subjectivity. The fact that two people can look at the same sunset and write two entirely different stories — not because of what they saw, but because of what they carried into that moment. That’s what makes human creativity irreplaceable. Not its polish. Not its perfection. But its depth. It's chaos. It's an unrepeatable fingerprint. The answer might be different for everyone. For some, AI is a ladder, lifting them out of mental blocks and writer’s ruts. For others, it’s a crutch they fear becoming dependent on. And then there are those who fear it’s a mirror, reflecting back on a version of their work that’s somehow too perfect — too clean — missing the beautiful mess that makes it human.

In the end, maybe it’s not about winning or losing the battle. Maybe it’s about knowing the lines you’re willing to draw, the parts of your craft you’ll fiercely protect, and the parts you’ll allow to be enhanced. Maybe it's about finding balance in the blur — where your ideas begin and the machine's suggestions end. And if you're still standing outside that bandwagon, unsure, just know — you’re not alone. But the debate is no longer in the future. It’s here, now, tangled in our tools and thoughts, quietly rewriting the meaning of creation, one prompt at a time.

---