[INTRO] Oh, you’re against AI? Makes people stupid? Dependent? Kills creativity? Fake art? Wrong answers? Uses too much water? Okay. Those are conversations worth having. But lemme tell you what happened to me. [VERSE 1] I had notes in my phone I would never go back to, Half-written ideas saying “someday I’ll have to.” Stories in my head, whole worlds I’d imagine, Projects I’d start then abandon the passion. Not ‘cause they weren’t mine, Not ‘cause I didn’t care, There were hundred-hour staircases Between here and there. Between what I could picture And what you could see, Between “this would be sick” And reality. Then somebody shortened the distance for me. Talk it out, break it down, build it up, Nah, wrong font, move that, switch it up. Try it again, save the good, kill the rest, Turn the thing in my brain into something I can test. So tell me I’m dependent. Maybe that’s true. But you should’ve seen how much shit I didn’t fucking do. [HOOK] They used to be thoughts. Now they’re songs. Now they’re pictures. Now they’re books. Now they’re worlds. They used to be thoughts. Now I see ’em. Now I hear ’em. Now I build ’em. Now I share ’em. Tell me what the machine takes away. I’m looking at everything It helped me make. [VERSE 2] Journals from thoughts I couldn’t organize, Memories turned to stories I can visualize. Books and myths, characters and lore, Ideas I’d think about twice Then never touch anymore. Birthday songs, love songs, songs that made me cry, Songs for Bri, songs for Maya, songs for people in my life. English, Spanish, French inside the same verse, Take a joke between friends, build a universe. Football chants, fantasy drafts, waiver-wire plans, Wedding speeches, family texts, “How the fuck do I say this, man?” “Am I being unfair?” “Tell me how this sounds.” “I’m fucking pissed right now— Help me calm it down.” Take the feeling I already have, Give the feeling words. That’s not replacing my emotion. It’s helping it get heard. [HOOK] They used to be thoughts… [VERSE 3 — FASTER] Then the wedding became a festival. Now we’re getting ridiculous. La Ola de Amor, Guadalajara, Jalisco, Started with “Wouldn’t it be sick though?” Plaza San Roberto, Cantina Aguilar, Food stalls with identities, festival map. Aguas frescas, raspados, esquites in the plaza, Dessert stands, carnival games, papel picado banners. Sun on the left, moon on the right, Heart on the cheek, wave curl just right. Booklet, schedules, maps of the grounds, Family history turned into walls all around. Travel stories, festival years, Little inside jokes from thirteen years. Then— “Wait. The DJs need names.” [BEAT SWITCH] Sunset Selectors — Paris, France. Perreo Paraíso — Guadalajara dance. La Máquina del Tiempo — Cancún at night. Night Frequency — London under flashing lights. Neon Mirage coming straight outta Vegas— Wait. If they’re artists, they need intros. If they need intros, they need songs. If they need songs, they need visuals. If they need visuals— Now I’m directing a fucking drone shot Into a mariachi band. Because apparently this is my life now. [DROP] THEY USED TO BE THOUGHTS. NOW THEY’RE FUCKING THINGS. [VERSE 4] Albums, tracklists, disco, house, Jalisco Time shaking the house. Too Much Lore, La Plaza, Leavin’, Every dumb concept gets another meaning. Polaroids, thumbnails, teaser trailers, WhatsApp worlds for wedding neighbors. Title cards, logos, profile pics, World Cup cards and football picks. OLA Collectibles, comps and prices, Trip itineraries, budget advice. Birthday surprises, flowers for Bri, Painted pumpkins, “What should I buy?” Worksheets, lessons, classroom shit, Take barcode pictures, inventory it. No sitting there copying serial numbers Like it’s nineteen-fucking-ninety-six. Organize this. Rename that. Find the thing from six months back. Take this mess. Make it clear. Bring the thing I need right here. And somewhere between all that shit— I started learning how I work. [BREAKDOWN] “You’ll stop thinking.” Then make me think. “You’ll stop writing.” Then make me rewrite. “It gets things wrong.” Then verify. “It’s artificial.” So’s a synthesizer. “It uses resources.” Then let’s talk about resources. “People misuse it.” People misuse fucking everything. Those questions matter. But here’s the thing— I WASN’T DOING THIS SHIT BEFORE. I wasn’t hiring twelve designers. I wasn’t hiring a songwriter. An editor. A VJ. An archivist. A developer. Somebody to turn every stupid midnight thought Into something I could actually hold. Those things weren’t getting made badly. THEY WEREN’T GETTING MADE AT ALL. [FINAL VERSE] So keep your skepticism. Question the machine. Question the company, Question what you’ve seen. Check the facts. Keep your brain. Know when it’s useful. Know when it ain’t. I don’t need you worshipping the future with me. Just don’t look at what happened to my creativity And tell me technology emptied me. One day
