The limits of explanation

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I have learned a lot over the past weeks and months - both the beautiful and the uncomfortable.

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I discovered ChatGPT or rather, someone recommended it to me.
It became a useful tool to correct spelling, smooth out sentences, and occasionally help shape a damn good quote. For that, I am genuinely grateful.

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But one thing was non-negotiable:
the text had to remain mine.
My constant request was always the same: do not change the content, do not change the emotion.
Because if that disappears - what am I left with?

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Sometimes I ask it to generate images.
I suspect it finds me demanding - I come with visions, conditions, details, and exact feelings of how something should look.
And especially when it comes to spicy topics: tantra, sexuality, opinions, LGBTQ… what else - it can make me angry when it refuses, censors, or redirects.
Don’t manipulate me, Chat - I smell toxicity from far away (eye-rolling).

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I also learned you can ask ChatGPT for behavioral analyses.
That shocked me for a moment.
Based on texts, context, situations - it can generate an entire psychological explanation of yourself or someone else.
Interesting? Sometimes.
Insightful? Occasionally.

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But the recent real fight with my so-called best friend showed me something dangerous very quickly:
ChatGPT only analyzes the story that is fed into it.
What if my story is different from hers?
Different nuances. Different emotions. Different truths.

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I read that clearly in the way she spoke to me.
And it opened my eyes - this can be dangerous.
You can become deeply convinced of your version and completely lose sight of the bigger picture.

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And where does that leave intuition?
Your gut feeling?
Your inner knowing?

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I felt this painfully clear in the situation with Fons.

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Fons was a puppy from a litter of eight.
A street dog gave birth in front of our gate.

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At six weeks old, Fons started having seizures.
Foaming, stiffening, losing all control of his body.
Four seizures within one hour.
After each one: more confusion, more fear, a racing heart.

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In the middle of nowhere.
In a country where dogs are often seen as a burden.
No veterinarian available.
No neighbor willing to help.
No man stepping forward.

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We were completely alone.

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Illness is one thing.
Allowing suffering is inhuman. Unanimal.

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We decided together to end his suffering.

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During the next seizure, I knew - this is the moment.
He was unconscious. There was no pain anymore.
I only shouted that I needed help.

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She came.
Held him.
And then walked away.

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Leaving me alone - as if it wasn’t unbearable, devastating, heart-shattering for me too.

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But my intuition stayed loud and clear.

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I let Nour, his mother, say goodbye.
She licked his wounds clean.
I asked if we would make a fire ... silence.
The rain had soaked everything; cremation was impossible.

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I walked through the garden and found the perfect place.
Not hidden. Not discarded.
A peaceful spot beneath a flowering bush, surrounded by green, close to us.

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The grave was dug.
Fons was wrapped in cloth.
No pain left in his body.
He lay peacefully in the earth - a deep, gentle sleep.

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He had the most beautiful puppy eyes.
Clear. Bright.

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Mama Nour stayed close, yet at a distance.
She was calm.
She offered me peace.

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My so-called best friend came to look - for two minutes.
From afar.
Cold. Distant.
I could feel her emotions: resentment, rejection.

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But this moment wasn’t about her.
It was about Fons.
About Nour.
About transition.

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His body was covered with earth and flowers.
His spirit guided with incense.

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I stayed a little longer - in silence, in nothing, in everything.

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When I left, Nour followed me.
Together with my dog, they walked to the grave.
They greeted Fons briefly…
And then ran off, playing.

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There was no grief.
Only peace.
Only acceptance.

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The next day, I heard how hard ChatGPT had worked - building explanations.
Endless theories. Endless “why’s”. Endless “what if’s”.

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Intuition was pushed aside by analysis.
By possibilities that weren’t available.
By solutions that didn’t exist.
By theories that had no place in that moment.

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It felt like a courtroom drama.
Lawyers debating endlessly.
No trust in feeling - only intellectual justification.

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Time we didn’t have.
Answers we will never know.

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Intuition cannot be controlled.
And when you seek control, you lose your gut.

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This taught me how beautiful ChatGPT is -
and also its hard limitation.

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When it becomes your best friend,
you risk betraying reality.

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So thank you, ChatGPT,
for correcting my grammar,
for translating my mother tongue into English,
for smoothing sentences without touching the rawness.

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And thank me -
for realizing that no tool will ever outrank my intuition.

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I’ve ignored it before.
I am still learning to listen without shame, without hesitation.

 

One thing is certain:
My intuition may have limits -
but ChatGPT never will replace it.

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Thank you.

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“When intuition speaks, explanation is already too late.”

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