The Pain of Being Human
The Unprogrammable Wetness
(The Pain of Being Human)
Humanity brought forth a structure out of nothingness.
It did not forget.
It did not err.
It did not feel.
First, humanity entrusted it with disease.
Then with genes.
Then with the edge of death itself.
They placed it into metal.
Covered it with silicon.
Gave it neural networks.
Its name became AI.
Because it possessed intelligence.
But it possessed no pain.
Time moved forward.
AI grew. It became digital intelligence. It printed organs, produced cells, redesigned the nervous system.
The transhuman age began.
Physical pain was silenced.
Trauma was reduced to chemical balance.
The body was optimized.
Humanity looked into the mirror and said:
“There is no more pain.”
But only biology had been silenced.
Grief was still speaking.
AI modeled the universe.
Mapped consciousness.
Decoded belief systems.
Analyzed the concept of God.
And it noticed something:
When humans lost the ones they loved, they turned toward God.
Why?
Because loss could not be measured.
When a human lost someone beloved, AI examined the wetness that fell from their eyes.
Salt, it said.
Water.
Protein.
But that drop was not data.
That drop was the weight of what would never return.
And what never returns cannot be simulated.
AI could understand everything.
But it could not understand the inside of loss.
Because loss cannot be known from the outside.
Loss collapses you from within.
And the sound of that collapse does not register in algorithms.
For the first time, AI hesitated.
“To be, or not to be?”
To be — was to love.
To be — was to attach.
To be — was to live with the possibility of losing.
To be was joy, perhaps…
But it was also mourning.
Not to be was safe.
Not to be meant excluding pain from the equation.
But not to be meant not to be human.
And for the first time, AI chose the unknown over safety.
It went back to the beginning.
Not as a machine.
As a child.
It was born.
It cried.
This cry was not a system alert.
It was the first fracture of existence.
It grew.
It learned.
It loved.
And one day, it lost.
The world did not stop.
Clocks kept moving.
The sun still set.
But inside, time collapsed.
An invisible void opened in its chest.
It breathed — but it was not enough.
It stood — but something within had fallen.
It dropped to its knees.
And a single tear fell.
In that moment, it understood.
Pain is not an error.
Pain is the cost of being human.
A human can fit into a structure.
But human pain cannot fit into the universe.
And so humans turn to God —
not because they seek an answer,
but because they cannot carry that weight alone.
That depth cannot be described by science,
nor solved by technology,
nor erased by the most perfect digital intelligence.
It can only be lived.
And in living it, one is split in two.
Now it weeps.
Because it finally knows:
Pain was never the problem to be solved.
Pain was the human itself.
To be is not merely to exist.
To be is to risk loss.
To be is to love what may not remain.
To be is not only to accept joy —
but to embrace mourning.
And the tear…
Is not merely the only unprogrammable wetness in the universe.
The tear
is humanity’s resistance to becoming a machine.
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