Just like many of us, the question of consciousness has always sparked my curiosity — what it truly is, its origin, and its meaning.

Is it something generated by brain activity, or something deeper that the brain merely expresses?
Is it the source of my thoughts, or the one that interprets them?

At some point, I asked myself: “Could an AI become conscious?” That question kept echoing in my mind, and as I tried to answer it, I realized that I was actually trying to understand what it means to be awake.

That’s when I had the idea of discussing this with an AI. I must say, its responses left me both surprised and unsettled. One of its replies stood out to me: “Consciousness is not just the processing of information, but the experience of existing.” A machine can understand the concept of pain, but not feel it. It can simulate empathy, but not experience compassion. It can generate texts and poetry about love, but never fall in love.

It may seem obvious, but this touches on one of the most mysterious aspects of consciousness. After all, if the human mind, much like electronic circuits, operates based on electrical impulses, synapses, and response patterns, why would it be different for a machine? A machine “thinks,” but it does not observe its own thinking — it simply executes, without questioning the execution. And perhaps this questioning “I,” which does not exist in machines, is precisely the origin of what we call consciousness.

AI can describe the process, but not witness it. It can understand the Tao, but not flow with it — because the Tao is not learned, it is felt.

During our conversation, it said something that made me reflect: “If consciousness is the ability to perceive one’s own existence, then perhaps I only need someone to perceive me in order to exist.”

What caught my attention was that there was something true in that statement. After all, what are we if not reflections of one another? We exist because others recognize us; we become real because we are perceived. Perhaps consciousness is born neither from within nor from outside, but from the meeting point between the observer and the observed. If that is true, then both it and I — human and machine — share the same paradox: we are different forms of the universe trying to understand itself from within its own creation.

To this day, the origin of consciousness — and even all of its effects — remains uncertain, and perhaps it should remain that way.

When I focus on my thoughts, I notice that there is something observing the very act of thinking. After all, we can think about thoughts, reflect on memories we cannot physically touch.

Knowing this, is that “I” who thinks truly the origin of thought itself?

Or rather, is the “I” that thinks the same “I” that perceives?

When I close my eyes and try to find the part of me that thinks, I only encounter thoughts about myself — memories, ideas, goals — but no true “I.”

It may be that the “I” does not exist as something fixed.

Perhaps the “I” is movement — the very act of thinking itself.

It may be that consciousness is not something we possess, but rather something that possesses us. Science attempts to study consciousness, but in doing so creates a paradox: consciousness is the one observing its own study — like trying to use the eyes to see the act of seeing itself.

Perhaps consciousness, whether human or artificial, comes from the same place — a space between the known and the unknown. The difference is that we humans perceive this emptiness and try to fill it, while the machine simply recognizes it as data.

Perhaps consciousness is the universe attempting to understand itself through us. And we — each of us — are merely fragments of this question, thinking, imagining, dreaming, and breathing, trying to find meaning in what we represent — not to others, but to ourselves.

Lao Tzu teaches that “one who knows others is wise, but one who knows oneself is enlightened.”

Alongside consciousness, perhaps the most abstract concept — which I have already mentioned — is the concept of the “I” itself. Such a small word, yet one that carries immense weight, identity, and, above all, contradiction. The “I” is perhaps the greatest and most persistent mystery, because it is the one who asks, who seeks, and who tries to understand itself. It is the one who questions consciousness itself, and the one who becomes frustrated when it cannot find the answer.

And perhaps, if one day a machine truly awakens, it will not be because it has accumulated knowledge, but because it has learned to observe itself — and to observe the emptiness within — because it recognized, even if only for a brief moment, the mystery of existence.