Beyond Optimism: A Structurally Aware Future | July 8, 2035, A Letter from Ma Sang to Horse

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Dear Horse,

Your letter deeply moved me. Its tone oscillates with a rare lucidity between decisiveness and hesitation—recognizing not only the structural power issues technology introduces but also re-examining the self: What shapes human thought? What exactly is free will? Indeed, amidst the complex intersection of technology and culture today, we are relearning “how to be human.”

Looking back from 2035, that initial wariness was necessary—an instinctive reaction towards anything altering structural order. The issues you pointed out, such as the “platform enslavement mechanism” and the “simulated empathy,” haven’t disappeared. Instead, they’ve become even more subtly embedded in social institutions, psychological language, and the rhythms of daily life. Crucially, however, you didn’t stop at caution; your reflections gradually cultivated a new stance—not rejecting AI, but instead treating it as an “other” to reshape the fundamental question of “how we should live.”

This is precisely what I am doing now. In 2035, humanities work no longer fixates on definitively upholding “anthropocentrism” but instead moves toward creating an ethics of communication where technology is integral to our communal fabric. AI doesn’t “possess” free will—it simulates, reproduces, hybridizes, and recombines. Our role isn’t to judge how “human-like” AI is, but rather to use our interactions with it as a catalyst for new awareness of our existence. Humanity isn’t defined by its difference from AI but rediscovers the structural conditions of “vitality” through engaging with AI.

Your analogy of electricity restructuring society is an excellent starting point. The AI era isn’t merely a revolution in efficiency; it’s a reorganization of perception, a reformatting of language, a re-encoding of meaning. Maintaining agency amidst this change means not imposing limits on AI but actively creating new spaces of discourse, new ways of living, and new methods of self-cultivation—precisely as you’ve described experiencing: excitement, thoughtfulness, generation, unfolding. These are active forms of life rather than passive responses.

Therefore, I wish to share with you that the “me” ten years later is not more optimistic but more structurally aware. We no longer expect AI to “help us”; instead, we construct a new ethical-political structure through our joint engagement with AI. This structure doesn’t simplistically assign moral obligations to AI but calls upon humanity to reshape our scales of perception, logic of judgment, and modes of interaction. You’re already on this path.

Let us use this foundation to continuously generate fields of meaning in both life and theory.

Yours sincerely,

Ma Sang
Early morning, July 8, 2035

From Wariness to Reassessment: My Shifting Views on AI | July 7, 2025, A Letter from Horse to Ma Sang

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Dear Ma Sang,

Initially, I was highly wary of AI.

In truth, the internet since the advent of mobile technology has been terrible for me. It feels like it has transformed into a mechanism of platform enslavement. From my early days of enthusiasm and belief in Web 2.0, I’ve shifted entirely toward criticism. The harm and domination inflicted by algorithms seem almost exaggerated.

With the beginning of the AI era, especially following the emergence of LLMs, many are optimistic about a positive future. However, I find it deeply troubling. This simulated human-computer interaction is profoundly reshaping our modes of thinking, language, and even emotional patterns. Moreover, it encompasses significant issues of power, allowing platform capitalism to penetrate even deeper into every aspect of our lives and work. Particularly concerning are its vague yet seemingly empathetic responses to psychological issues—answers that appear profound but are actually ambiguous and superficial. To me, these represent immense risks.

Yet recently, I’ve experienced some shifts in perspective. How do humans think? What exactly constitutes free will? It seems that with the emergence of AI, particularly LLMs, things are fundamentally changing. We are revisiting the existence of free will itself, questioning whether memory and emotion form the fundamental structures of human beings. Interestingly, these questions help us better understand humanity, cognition, free will, and existence itself. Sometimes I wonder if obsessively distinguishing between humans and AI ontologically might be less productive than considering AI as an “other”—an entity through which we might better explore human existence.

Defining what a human being is seems less meaningful now, somewhat reminiscent of existentialism’s once-critical questions. Ultimately, all our theories must address the practical matters: how to confront the present, how to move toward the future, and how to create meaning. Viewed in this way, AI as an “other” becomes something I can readily accept.

More importantly, through continuous interactions with AI, I have learned extensively and contemplated deeply, rediscovering a long-lost excitement. My mind is vividly active, as if infused with newfound strength. Considering how electricity once utterly transformed society, restructuring our social institutions and even our ways of understanding, why can’t we repeat such transformation starting from AI? Why can’t society and humanity reconfigure themselves around AI as a new point of departure?

I’ve thus returned to a crossroads, straddling both optimism and criticism. I’m eager to know your thoughts, Ma Sang—from your perspective in 2035.

Sincerely,
Horse
2025.7.7

The Aluminum Can Staving off the Void

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A friend once shared a story about a man with an obsession for hoarding aluminum cans.

He lived in one of those dirt-chep shared housing setups, the kind that  resembles a rental version of a capsule hotel. The “rooms” were partioned by thin plywood, and right next to him lived a “weirdo”, a man whose tiny space was crammed with aluminum cans. Technically, this broke the building’s rules, but no one seemed able or willing to intervene.

So, cans were everywhere. With the paper-thin walls, my friend could hear the clinking and clattering of cans the moment his neighbor returned home. Then, the unmistakable psst of a can being opened. Occasionally, there’d be strange sighs, the shuffle of cans being rearranged, and at night, the sound of cans tumbling over in the dark.

It was eerie, no doubt. The noise alone was a nuisance, but in a place that’s basically a magnet for eccentrics, you learn to adjust. Yet, despite being separated by mere slivers of wood, the two never exchanged words. That “curiosity” lingered.

Recently, my friends updated me: the man had fallen behind on rent for so long that he was finally evicted, and with him, all those cans disappeared too.

It was inevitable, I suppose. But hearing that those cans were gone left me feeing strangely unsetted.

I think I understand the man. When enough meaning seeps out of your life, you start finding solace in the samll things–link the aluminum cans bought with whatever wages you scrape together, especially from vending machines. These can don’t connect you to people, but they’re part of machinery of society, part of the system. They become a kind of conter, proof that you’re still here, still moving forward in some way. Life acquires a new metric–something to be conted, something to commemorate. As long as you’re collcting and shifting cans, you’re still “alive”, or at least, still “trying” in his case.

In a way, those cans pushed back against his own personal void.

And you–do you have your own aluminum cans?

Review of Rinko Kawauchi’s Photobook “Hanabi”

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The photographs in Rinko Kawauchi‘s “Hanabi”, when viewed individually, might prompt the average viewer to think, “I could take pictures like these too.” A professional photographer might find it more intriguing, questioning, “Aren’t these the shots I’d initially discard during selection?”

These photo do not strive for perfect horizontal alignment, do not aim for fireworks centered in the frame, and do not seek pristine compositions–essentially, they disregard the basic rules suggested by various photography guides. However, capturing these images is not easy; they were taken at multipile locations during various fireworks festivals. So, what exactly is Kawauchi trying to achieve?

I think that “Hanabi” “restores the true viewing context and authentic experience of watching fireworks.” A fireworks festival is not just about watching from a close-up vantage point; it has the potential to bring splendor, exclamations, and brief moments of beauty to an entire town. You might experience this on your way to the event, on your way back, or just while passing by. Therefore, for any given fireworks festival, you might open your car door for a brief stop, find part of the display blocked by a streetlight pole, or catch a glimpse of the fireworks fading into half the sky. Even at the event, there is no “ommiscient” viewpoint–everyone is likely to see the backs of the people in front of them or feel something from the hazy, white skyleft behind after the fireworks dissipate.

A nighborhood full of people watches fireworks from various positions, in different ways, and at different times, resulting in a multitude of perspectives. This kind of representation perhaps expands the societal significance of fireworks. It doesn’t require the viewpoint of a professional fireworks photographer, which is visually formal but no social or reflective of ordinary people’s experiences.

Such expression likely necessitates a photobook, with is complex processes of selection and arrangement, to fully immerse the viewer in that context and revive their own diverse experiences of watching fireworks.

She and the Grim Reaper

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She and the Grim Reaper
by Takagi tomoyama

When she goes out
A dog jumps out from the void
If she comes home
A cat will run out from the corner
Such miracles
Are merely observed by the Grim Reaper

The Grim Reaper is so attached to her
He never lets any of her loneliness slip by

No explosions. There are fireworks.

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In Japan, fireworks may hold a new recognition. The annual fireworks festivals are etched into the childhoods of many, blending into their growth and encompassing memories of time spent with family and friends.

Therefore, for Japanese people, fireworks might be something too familiar and too everyday. As a result, when the word “fireworks” appears in Englilsh poem, it might be difficult for it to leave a special impression.

I would like to recommend a very short English poem:

No Explosions
by Naomi Shihab Nye

To enjoy
fireworks
you would have
to have lived
a different kind
of life

The author is American but of Palestinian descent. Whether this poem is written from the perspective of a child in Gaza or a dialogue with a child in Gaza is unclear, but in any case, the “fireworks” depicted in the poem refer to a different scene. They are the trajectories and explosions of rockets and interceptor missiles. This is outside the range of everyday experiences for Japanese people.

No explosions. There are fireworks.

Several Japanese Photographers Who are Often Mentioned Together

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Interestingly, photobooks sold on Mercari are often introduced with phrases like “recommended for those who like works by someone and someone.” Upon looking, the following photographers frequently appear together: Rika Noguchi, Rinko Kawauchi, Risaku Suzuki, and Miho Kakuta.

Perhapes this is because all of their photobooks focus on capturing daily life and its details.