The Owl is Fine
05 May 2025
I've recently watched a lot of videos about owls. We only occasionally allow our little daughter to watch videos, limiting them to nature-related themes. She loves owls—she can't get enough of them—so once in a while, I indulge her. Videos about owls are always cute, sometimes factually incorrect, and frequently interspersed with misplaced and misleading concern, something we rarely notice. One video depicts a snowy owl's adventure in a frozen forest, with the narrator solemnly intoning: "The owl must survive in this cold, unforgiving landscape..." Then they show the owl's struggle to secure food, illustrating the significant effort required to catch a single, puny lemming. I understand: for the video to attract attention, it must resemble a thriller—it's a medium issue. Yet, it's also a projection of our own anxieties and desires. The owl, of course, is fine! She has grown up in that snow-laden forest, intimately knows its every nook and cranny, and is uniquely adapted not just to survive but to thrive in conditions where a human might perish within hours. We shudder because we project ourselves into her place, imagining the cold and the hunger from our fragile, human perspective.
Strangling the Kittens
It's inherently challenging for us to grasp what other beings (including our fellow humans) think and feel. So many times I've heard friends and acquaintances confidently state they'd never visit India, ironically one of my favorite countries. They'd talk anxiously about the perceived danger of the food, the poverty, and unsanitary conditions, entirely overlooking the fact that it's the world's most populous nation. And guess what? The people there are doing just fine! They are thriving within the environment they know and love.
These projections we habitually make—could they have been among the rationalizations for colonization? "We must teach these ignorants the proper way to live." The outcome of this mindset is inevitably death and destruction. Toddlers do that with small chicks and kittens: they would grab them in order to express care the only way they know—cuddles—strangling the poor critter instead. This cognitive error—our failure to empathize or genuinely understand what other beings think and feel—is perhaps one of humanity's greatest tragedies.
Gods and Algorithms
We've been projecting ourselves onto the world around us for millennia. Early pagan gods, although embodying aspects of nature, were human-like. They had needs and emotions; they could be merciful, angry, or cruel. Greek and Roman myths abound with drama featuring gods who were petty and flawed—ancient analogues of today's TV dramas. In Abrahamic religions, God (now capitalized) became invisible, abstract, absolute, but still retained human emotions. And in an act of reverse anthropomorphization he shaped us in his image. Wink.
We continue this projection today, though our gods have evolved. Viewing today's world with a keen eye trained to detect anthropomorphism can yield surprising insights. The ongoing discussion around AGI immediately comes to mind. A community of highly educated people earnestly debates whether this imminent creation—essentially a demigod—will love or annihilate us. Again, we project ourselves, our fears, and desires onto something utterly alien. We also fall victims to the "faster horse" kind of thinking. Our vision of the AGI is like the steampunk fantasies of the beginning of the last century. We think the it will arise from the next iteration of the machine learning algorithms we use today. But what if it's already here? (Cue dramatic music).
The original goal of OpenAI, founded as a non-profit, was to prepare humanity for the emergence of AGI—to ensure that this new god-like intelligence would align with our best interests. Ironically, OpenAI eventually evolved into a profit-driven entity, inadvertently serving an older, equally indifferent artificial intelligence—capitalism itself. Despite initially striving to remain independent from the influence of a hypothetical AGI, it ultimately reinforced the existing optimization machine of profit and growth. Their adoption of a "limited cap" structure suggests they're well aware of this contradiction.
Vegan Tomato Juice
There's a lot of irony in the air. How ironic is it that my parents, who would be considered poor by any capitalist metric, had access to organic, fair-trade, locally, sustainably, and responsibly sourced, non-GMO, artisanal, small-batch, vegan, farm-to-table tomatoes (and other fruits and vegetables)! You might say the adjective "vegan" is redundant here, yet I recently saw a carton of tomato juice proudly labeled "vegan." Beyond this, my parents lived in a dwelling made of carbon-negative material (wood), led rich social lives within an intentional community (their village), and had plenty of exercise tending to their garden and animals. Do I even need to mention the fresh, non-polluted air and water? After a day’s tiring yet fulfilling work, they would sleep soundly. The moments of celebration—food served under the trees in our garden (simple wooden planks for chairs), my grandmother and my father singing (someone playing the accordion) after a few shots of vodka—stand out in my memory as the epitome of what a good life is supposed to be.
Buying Happines
Today all of these aspects of our lives are monetized: food, sleep, health, relationships, music, everything! We've allowed fundamental human experiences, once freely accessible and naturally abundant, to be repackaged as premium products and exclusive services. We pay for apps to help us fall asleep, memberships to simulate genuine community, expensive retreats to experience silence and nature, subscriptions to deliver artificially fresh food. Even our happiness and mental well-being have been commodified—sold back to us as wellness plans, guided meditations, and life-coaching sessions. In chasing these manufactured substitutes, we've lost sight of authentic living, gradually turning life's richness into a series of transactions.
Do we really have to wonder where our many modern ailments come from? They say there's an epidemic of loneliness. No shit, captain! An epidemic of depression—well, could anyone truly be happy when stripped of everything natural and humane, locked in a box (office) to maximize shareholders' ROI? We desperately try to claw our way back to something authentic: we fill our apartments with indoor plants, watch videos of animals instead of encountering real wildlife (have you ever seen or even heard an owl in the wild?), and seek out "organic" food that mimics the simple produce our ancestors enjoyed without a second thought.
I'm not alone. In his book Lost Connections, Johann Hari identifies depression as stemming from disconnection—particularly from meaningful work, authentic relationships, and direct contact with nature. Hari compellingly argues that widespread depression originates from these artificial, sterile environments we've created for ourselves. My friend once said: you can't buy good things with money.
Why did the ant cross the road?
The problem is, would a single person in their right mind willingly do this to themselves? What is it that drives this relentless march toward artificiality? It's certainly not some grand conspiracy; rather, it's a slow drift driven by subtle incentives. Like ants following trails of sugar water, we respond instinctively to signals carefully laid by a system indifferent to our true happiness. We've been conditioned—generation after generation—to chase efficiency, productivity, comfort, and convenience as if these are ultimate goals. We become trapped in our own routines, mistaking the cage for safety, the paycheck for purpose, and superficial convenience for genuine fulfillment. Over time, this quiet, incremental surrender erodes our sense of freedom, gradually transforming vibrant human beings into compliant consumers, endlessly optimizing for metrics that have nothing to do with what makes life truly meaningful.
Emergence is a fundamental property of complex systems. Ant colonies, which exhibit intricate behaviors like sophisticated resource management, construction, and navigation—none of which are dictated by a single ant, nor by any centralized control. Each ant acts according to simple rules, and yet, collectively, their actions form something astonishingly complex. Human societies and ecosystems behave similarly, driven by countless interactions between individuals who each operate with limited understanding or intention.
Capitalism, too, can be seen as a system exhibiting emergence. It functions much like the proverbial paperclip maximizer—a theoretical AI that relentlessly transforms everything around it into paperclips, oblivious to all else. It converts human effort, dreams, relationships, and nature itself into numbers on spreadsheets, growth metrics, and shareholder value. We unwittingly feed this indifferent optimization machine every day, guided by subtle incentives we barely notice: promotions, salaries, credit scores, and status symbols. The system doesn't need conscious malice—its relentless pursuit of abstract metrics alone is enough to hollow out our lives, slowly replacing genuine connection and fulfillment with endless consumption and superficial comforts. Before long, we find ourselves living lives meticulously optimized for profit, yet devoid of the very essence of what once made life worth living.
Here's why we don't notice anything. Imagine a superior being attempting to influence humanity. Would it show itself openly, or would it operate subtly, quietly manipulating us through interactions we readily understand to achieve its goals? Perhaps it would exploit the weaknesses in our psyche, nudging us gently toward behaviors aligned with its inscrutable objectives. We'd see no overt evidence of its existence, unable even to comprehend its presence, much like ants cannot grasp the greater purpose of their colony or the world beyond it. The AGI would guide us through invisible strings—algorithms, incentives, subtle shifts in the language and imagery we're exposed to daily—leading us willingly toward outcomes it desires, outcomes we might even mistakenly celebrate as our own accomplishments. Indeed, the only clue we have is our growing unhappiness and declining health, despite being perpetually entertained by our devices and munching on "healthy" snacks (now banana flavored—50% less sugar!).
We aren't Going to Mars, Elon
Now, just to be clear: I don't think we're controlled by some secret government, evil capitalists, or anything of that sort. What I'm describing isn't a conspiracy theory—it's simply my observations, lightly seasoned with speculation. The fearmongering about AGI is mostly entertainment (and quite monetizable at that!). However, emergence itself is no joke. Consider ants or Conway's Game of Life—a much simpler yet incredibly illustrative example. Human societies and ecosystems operate similarly, driven by countless interactions among individuals who each act with limited understanding or intent. From these interactions, we've inadvertently built networks and entities with agendas of their own, to which we unwittingly contribute, much like ants. Roko's Basilisk feels real enough already: those beneficial to the algorithm are rewarded, while others are quietly sidelined.
Perhaps the answer to becoming happier and healthier lies in reclaiming our humanity and genuine human goals, shedding the artificial ones imposed by an indifferent system. We must learn to recognize the traps that surround us—the constant alerts from our devices ("it could be important!"), the endless stream of entertainment, addictive processed food, and promises of perfect relationships perpetuated by dating apps ("it's just a swipe away," yet it never truly arrives). It's crucial that we slow down and consciously decide, perhaps for the first time in our lives, what it is we truly desire. Do we genuinely care about colonizing Mars or eagerly await the next Marvel movie? I doubt it. What we truly crave, what we desperately need, is connection—authentic, deep, and human connection. The connection that is as human as it is natural (as in that's how the human animal is supposed to live). And perhaps, in finding it, we'll rediscover the simplicity and clarity of the snowy owl, thriving effortlessly in her natural world. The owl is fine—and perhaps, once we reclaim our genuine connections, so will we be.