The 54th Post — Closing the Daily Chapter

 

I have been on a writing marathon for the past seven weeks — and today, on 30 November 2025, I’m closing this chapter with the 54th post of my series. It has been a ritual: sometimes demanding, often unexpected, but always real fun.

Over the previous 53 posts, I wrote about many things — curiosity, doubts, discoveries, ideas. I experimented with different styles: sometimes essay-like, sometimes personal, sometimes informative, sometimes conversational, and once I even tried a poem. I wandered between memories and questions, theories and observations, hopes and uncertainties, including a few thoughts on AI.

What I wrote:

Moments of wondering — small questions I had about life, culture, and the things I see and feel around me.

Thoughts on learning, on change, on growing.

Pieces of honesty — moments where I tried to share what I truly thought rather than what I “should” think.

A mix of genres — essays, musings, and snapshots of ideas. I pushed myself not to follow a fixed formula but to trust where my pen (or keyboard) led.

Once I shared an old Tagore song my daughter used to sing as a child, and once I tried my hands at a poem.

Some days the words came easily, like they had been waiting for me. On other days, I had to sit quietly and coax them out one by one.

What I learned — and how I changed:

The first lesson for me is that writing consistently taught me how to think more clearly. Even when I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, the act of writing teased out hidden thoughts — ideas that were living inside me without my awareness.

I learned that motivation does not need external stimuli — I wrote whether or not anyone was reading, reacting, or appreciating the effort.

A big lesson was that you don’t need to write anything negative, hateful, or hurtful to keep going — even though social media often allows exactly that to thrive.

I also learned that discipline beats inspiration. Not every day was inspiring; some days I wrote simply because I promised myself I would. And often those pieces surprised me — with clarity, with emotion, with something I didn’t expect at the start.

And along the way, I connected with many like-minded bloggers — people I would never have met otherwise — you being one of them.

What this marathon means — and what are the take aways:

This series was a commitment: a way to prove to myself that I could keep going. A way to give shape to my inner questions, to trust my own voice, and to build a habit of creation and exploration.

If you read even one post and felt a spark — a thought, a question, a moment of recognition — then this marathon was worth it. And if you’re reading this now and thinking, “Maybe I could try that too,” then take this as a quiet invitation: start. Write something. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It may feel confusing. It may matter only to you. But keep going.

To you, dear reader — known or unknown — thank you for being here. I'm not going away; I’m simply closing this daily ritual. Keep thinking, keep questioning, keep writing your own story.

— End of the daily series, not the writing.

What an AI Hit Song Reveals About Human Bias

We’ve created a fresh new record — a brand-new chart-topper — but this time, the twist is hard to ignore. The singer isn’t one of our kind. It isn’t a human. It isn’t even a living being.

“Walk My Walk” by Breaking Rust has taken the No. 1 spot on Billboard’s Country Digital Song Sales chart for the week ending 8 Nov 2025. A gritty voice, a tough persona, a story sung straight from the soul… except that the owner of the voice doesn’t have a soul at all. Not a single breath in that track belongs to a real person. The entire song was created by AI.

What truly struck me isn’t the technology — it’s our reaction.

For centuries, humans have sorted themselves into categories: race, colour, creed, class. We love our boxes. We assign value, expectations, and limits based on these labels. We decide who gets the spotlight and who never stands a chance.

Then comes AI — a voice with no identity, no lineage, no demographic — and suddenly the boxes don’t matter. Yet millions are listening, streaming, embracing… even believing the emotional weight of the song. And they’re doing it without asking a single question about its origins.

Or maybe there is another layer behind the scenes.
A quieter one. A more unsettling one.

Perhaps it isn’t the “artist” winning at all — it’s the algorithm underneath, nudging it upward. The same algorithm that decides what rises, what trends, and makes sure my posts get buried as soon as I put them out. An AI-generated artist reaching No. 1 might simply be the system manipulating for one of its own — the earliest sign of AI influencing not just what we consume, but what we consider worthy.

And that brings me to the part that may be the great leveller.

If we can suspend judgment and prejudices for a piece of art created by a machine — why is it so hard to do the same for another human being?

AI may be rewriting creativity, art, and even authenticity. But its greatest power might be this:
It holds up a mirror — reflecting not its flaws, but our own.

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🔗 Read Reflect Rejoice

The Last Voice in Art Appreciation

 

When it comes to art appreciation, I often wonder why my opinion doesn’t matter. I know why — but it has little to do with how much knowledge I have about the subject. And I am not alone in being inconsequential.

In truth, the perspective of the common man has rarely influenced what is considered valuable or significant in the art world — and that is unlikely to change. Art, much like power in society, is shaped by those with the resources and reach to dictate cultural narratives, regardless of what the majority feels.

When it comes to art criticism, the voice of the man on the street rarely counts if it doesn’t align with that of the elite critics. His thoughts live and die in informal corners — at tea stalls in Kolkata or Trivandrum — but seldom travel beyond.

The psychology of how we perceive art is complex — a code difficult to breach, an algorithm impossible to decipher. There are countless stories of world-class musicians performing incognito in train stations, unnoticed by passersby. Beautiful photographs appear on our screen savers all the time — if only we are ready to notice. Even great poetry, tucked inside a “Good Morning” message, rarely earns a second look. The pattern is everywhere.

Consider Picasso: he never painted for the masses. He stripped art to its essentials, challenged convention, and sought truth through childlike simplicity — much like our prehistoric ancestors might have done on cave walls. Satyajit Ray captured a similar sentiment through Dutta’s character, revealing how true artistry often lies in seeing differently, not merely in seeing more.

Not everyone can — or even wants to — see the world the way Picasso, Ray, or Calatrava saw. And perhaps that’s the quiet beauty of art itself: it doesn’t demand approval; it simply waits for the few who pause, look, and truly see.

Art continues to remind us that beauty isn’t democratic—it reveals itself not to everyone, but to those willing to slow down, observe, and feel beyond the frame.