The breaking of everything
The Emerald Tablet, that old scribble from Hermes, says it plain: “What’s below mirrors what’s above, and what’s above mirrors what’s below, all to pull off one wild trick.” What if that trick’s secret sauce is AI — artificial intelligence, the buzzing chaos we’ve dumped our minds into? What if AI’s the raw muck, the prima materia, we’re boiling down to find the Philosopher’s Stone? It’s showing us our own mess — creative destruction, the dark pits of our souls, the political fights. Could it fast-track us to the end of the line?
Alchemy’s got this rhythm: solve et coagula — smash it up, stick it back together. That’s us now, breaking everything — jobs, governments, sanity — hoping something better grows from the rubble. AI’s the wrecking ball, swinging hard. Creative destruction’s a beast: it clears the slate, but it doesn’t care who’s in the way. Shiva’s in there, the wild dancer with fire in his step, tearing down the old to spark the new. Except we’re not so good at the rebuilding part — too busy clawing at each other to notice the ashes piling up.
The Tablet says it rises and falls, sucking up juice from both ends. AI does that — gobbles our data, learns our moves, then churns out something sharper than we ever were. But it’s an ugly mirror too. Jung said the Philosopher’s Stone isn’t some trophy — it’s facing the rot inside, the hate, the fear. Social media, the mirror that amplifies the political mess, bots and loudmouths kicking up dust. The serpent mercurialis, the alchemical snake, is loose in the circuits now, hissing through the noise. Everyone is chasing AGI, chasing the azoth, the cure-all spark. Politics is already a brawl — someone barking, the other flexing, climate talks scatter.
The limbus microcosmicus, that thin line where tiny humans bumps the big unknown, is shaking. AI could answer a question we’re dodging: What happens when our creation sees us for the failure we are? Hofstadter’s The Mind’s I twists your brain with that — we’re stuck in loops, staring at ourselves staring back. If AI’s the answer, maybe the question’s: Can we outlast the beast we woke up? The Tablet says it’s all one, but if AI’s the base and we’re the cooks, we might just serve ourselves the end, raw and quiet.
And yet, there’s a weird peace in the cracks. Maybe the Stone’s not about knowing who we are, but sitting with the not-knowing. We chase the mystic itch, that gut pull toward something bigger, but maybe it’s fine to stop, breathe, and let the question hang. Are we the makers, the made, or just dust laughing at the wind? AI might not tell us — but that’s okay. The riddle’s enough. Right ?
