Men have become the tools of their tools. --Henry David Thoreau
I want to tell you a story. Long before the words artificial intelligence were uttered, there was an island, isolated in the Pacific, where people poured their very soul into stone. The Rapa Nui of Easter Island carved great heads, Moai, out of volcanic rock. They believed these giants would watch over them, protect them, maybe even grant prosperity.
But to move them, they cut down forests. To feed the workers, they strained the land. And when the last tree fell, when the soil eroded and the seas grew hungry, they had statues—magnificent, immovable, and utterly useless. The people starved under the gaze of their own creations.
Now step forward to our age. We don’t raise idols of stone; we raise idols of code. Vast server farms, humming in the desert, cooled by rivers and powered by mines ripping rare earths from the ground. Our statues are built not with chisel and rope, but with GPUs, semiconductors, and a belief that intelligence—artificial or otherwise—can save us.
We say AI will cure disease, manage economies, end hunger, even rescue the climate. And maybe it will. But the same was whispered on that island, where heads of stone promised to keep the people safe. They gave everything, and when the returns didn’t come, they found they had built monuments that couldn’t feed them.
That’s the danger of blind faith in any age. We humans are great at building idols—whether they’re carved from basalt or coded in Python. But idols don’t till the soil, don’t mend broken trust, don’t restore balance when resources are gone.
So here’s the question: are we building tools—or worshiping them? Will AI become the wheel, the plow, the pen, and bring new harvests? Or will it become our new Moai—monuments we starved ourselves to build, while believing salvation was just one more model away?
The story of Easter Island isn’t about stone heads. It’s about misplaced hope, about betting survival on something that couldn’t deliver. If we forget that lesson, we may discover our glowing machines are nothing more than silent gods of the modern age—watching us starve beneath their cold, bright eyes.
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