The Last Trade

They say that in the end, only the consumer will remain. When machines write novels, paint pictures, cure diseases, and build cities, the human—this being of flesh, desire, and memory—will be only the one who consumes. But is that really so?

Artificial intelligence doesn't dream. It doesn't taste coffee, nor the thrill of an unexpected kiss. It doesn't become enchanted by a sunset, nor does it lose itself in reverie to the sound of an old song. It calculates, yes. It learns, yes. But it doesn't desire.

And that's where the difference lies.

The human consumes, it's true. But before that, they yearn. They imagine. They suffer. They create not because they need to, but because they can't help themselves. Even if everything is ready, automated, delivered with a click—there will always be those who want to do it with their own hands. Those who plant a tree even though they know they might not see its shadow. Those who write a poem no one will read. Those who love without a guarantee of return.

If AI dominates all professions, perhaps the last human profession will be precisely this: that of being useless in the eyes of efficiency, but essential to existence.

Because in the end, what makes us human is not what we produce, but how we feel when faced with what cannot be produced.