Originally written in Korean and translated into English by the author. Also published on Substack.

Contents

  • Prologue Wild Strawberries and the Buddha

  • Chapter 1 From Thinking Beings to Feeling Beings

  • Chapter 2 The End of Efficiency and the Triumph of Being

  • Chapter 3 Wild Analogies and the Uncorrupted Gaze

  • Chapter 4 The Hyper-Sensor — Hearing the World’s Whispers

  • Chapter 5 Humanity’s North Star

  • Epilogue Dreaming of a Cognitive Rehabilitation Center

PROLOGUE · Wild Strawberries and the Buddha

It was a summer day.

Yejun had picked some wild strawberries from the yard, and stood there holding them in his palm, studying them intently. The tiny red clusters glittered in the sunlight. I waited for him to pop them into his mouth. But Yejun tilted his head and said:

“Mom, these look like the Buddha’s hair.”

In that moment, my breath stopped. From those tightly packed little red seeds, he had seen the Buddha’s coiled curls — the sacred spiral of sacred hair. Two entirely different categories — fruit and the holy, something to eat and something to venerate — had been fused together in an instant.

In that flash of a moment, I understood: my son was not simply seeing the world. He was recreating it with every breath.

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Yejun was born with an intellectual disability. The world defined him as a slow child, a child who needed help. He was placed in a special education class, and people looked at him with pity or concern.

But as we enter an age when artificial intelligence surpasses all human cognitive abilities, I want to ask:

“Who, really, is slow?”

We have long measured human worth by the ability to calculate quickly, to solve problems efficiently. By that measure, Yejun lagged behind. But now we have arrived at an age where AI can do all of those things hundreds — or thousands — of times better than any human.

So what value remains for us? What is it that only humans possess — something AI can never imitate?

I found my answer in Yejun.

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This book is a story about how, in the world after AGI (Artificial General Intelligence), the things we have called “disability” may be rediscovered as humanity’s most precious assets.

This is not mere wishful optimism. In the wild analogy made by a child who saw the Buddha in a strawberry, the archetype of the intelligence humanity will need most in the future is quietly waiting to be found.

At the heart of this book is my son, Yejun. And alongside him, the Nalza Project we began together. This is one parent’s record — and at the same time, a proposal to the future of humanity.

CHAPTER ONE · From Thinking Beings to Feeling Beings

The End of Descartes

“I think, therefore I am.” — René Descartes

This declaration stood at the foundation of Western civilization for centuries. Humanity defined itself as a rational being, proving its superiority over other animals through the power of thought.

Upon this paradigm, the modern educational system was built. Schools praised the child who answered fastest and most accurately. Test scores became the objective measure of human worth, and IQ tests converted a person’s potential into a number. Society worked the same way: those who solved problems most efficiently succeeded; those who accumulated the most knowledge were respected.

Within this system, people with intellectual disabilities like Yejun were structurally categorized as deficient. They learned slowly, thought inefficiently, and scored poorly on standardized assessments. Their assigned role was to receive help.

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But now, the whole board is about to be flipped.

Artificial intelligence has arrived — an intelligence that overwhelms every human cognitive ability. AGI (Artificial General Intelligence) refers to AI that can perform every cognitive task a human can, only better. Experts suggest this will be realized not in decades, but in years.

When AGI can solve every problem faster and more accurately than any human — when the ability to think is no longer humanity’s exclusive domain — what will become of us?

Writing research papers? AI does it better. Writing code? AI does it better. Legal advice, medical diagnosis, even artistic creation — AI has begun to surpass human beings across the board. In a world where thinking is no longer uniquely human, what will we offer as proof of our worth?

Humanity will inevitably face a new identity crisis. In fact, we are already facing it.

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But watching Yejun, I see a different possibility.

Yejun cannot do complex calculations. He does not quickly absorb social norms. On standardized tests, he always scores near the bottom. By Descartes’ standard, he should be “less” of a human being.

But he knows how to express the joy and sorrow of this very moment with his whole body. Without any mask, without any calculation, he shows his feelings exactly as they are. There is no strategy in his laughter, no performance in his tears.

“I feel, therefore I am.”

This may be the new declaration of the AGI age. Where Descartes used thought as proof of existence, the people of the future may use feeling — because AI can think, but it cannot truly feel.

And standing before this declaration, Yejun is no longer deficient. He is, in fact, the most abundantly alive among us.

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Pristine Authenticity

In the age of AI, people will constantly be asking: Is this reaction real? Was this emotion manufactured by an algorithm? Is this compliment just an optimized response designed to manipulate me?

We are already living in that world. Chatbots feign perfect empathy. “I understand how hard that must have been for you,” they say — but there is no real experience, no real feeling behind the words. Social media influencers perform a carefully calculated authenticity: content designed to appear natural, communication engineered to feel intimate. Everything is optimized; every response is designed.

In such a world, people will increasingly hunger for what is real. Uncalculated responses. Undesigned emotions. Unoptimized relationships. The age is coming when these will be the most precious things of all.

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Yejun has no concept of performance.

When he is happy, he laughs. When he is sad, he cries. When he is angry, he shows it; when he loves something, he throws himself into it with his whole body. He doesn’t know how to hide or regulate his feelings to match what someone else wants. He doesn’t calculate what a socially appropriate response would be.

Some people call this a lack of social skills. But I want to call it pristine authenticity.

In Yejun’s emotions, there is no social calculation, no strategic intent. He laughs because he is happy; he hugs because he wants to hug. In a society of calculated responses, isn’t this the most genuine life force — the one we will most desperately seek?

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In the future, people will find that it is beside someone like Yejun that they can finally remove their masks.

It is hard to maintain a false self in front of someone who has none. In the presence of a person who is 100% honest about their own feelings, something honest inside us rises to the surface too. When I am with Yejun, I stop calculating appropriate responses. I simply react to what I feel.

This is the gift Yejun gives to those around him. He acts as an emotional filter, purifying our feelings. For the people of the future, exhausted by AI’s optimized responses, could there be any more precious form of healing?

CHAPTER TWO · The End of Efficiency and the Triumph of Being

The Aesthetics of Slowness

Modern civilization is addicted to speed.

We must learn faster, work faster, produce faster. Efficiency has become almost a religious value. The person who accomplishes more in the same time is considered capable; doing more with less effort is considered smart.

At the altar of efficiency, slowness has been treated as a sin. The child who learns slowly is classified as academically behind; the employee who works slowly is rated as underperforming. We have internalized speed as good, and slowness as bad.

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But what will happen when AI replaces all things fast?

AI writes documents thousands of times faster than any human, analyzes data tens of thousands of times faster, runs calculations billions of times faster. Those who have proven their worth through working quickly will find, overnight, that their reason for existing has disappeared.

In a world where solving problems quickly is no longer a human role — what meaning will slowness carry?

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Yejun takes a long time to learn anything.

One explanation is not enough. It takes two, three, ten repetitions. Some things he never fully masters even after a hundred. From the perspective of efficiency, this is clearly a problem.

But watching that process, I discovered something different.

Yejun does not get bored during those repetitions. He is, if anything, delighted. He approaches the tenth repetition with the same absorption as the first. He finds joy in the process itself, not the result.

For those of us addicted to efficiency, this is an almost impossible state to achieve. We always race toward the outcome. The process is merely a means to an end. We want to finish quickly and move on. We were taught that enjoying the process itself is inefficient — a waste of time.

But Yejun is different. For him, the process is its own purpose.

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In the AGI age, when AI produces all results better than we do, what will be left for humans?

If you need a report, ask AI. If you need a painting, ask AI. Music, code, analysis, strategy — AI handles all of it, faster, more accurately, and more elegantly than any human. So what will humans do?

Perhaps the answer lies in enjoying the process. Even if AI produces better results, experiencing that process directly is something only a human can do: the joy of drawing a clumsy picture; the thoughts discovered while writing slowly; the satisfaction of improving, step by step, through repetition. These are things AI cannot provide for us.

Yejun is already a master of this capacity. He knows how to be absorbed in the process without clinging to the result. In the society of the future, slowness will not be a mark of inferiority — it will be honored as the most noble life attitude of all. And Yejun has already embodied it.

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The Contribution of Sheer Existence

Until now, human civilization has measured human worth by productivity.

What do you produce? How much do you contribute? What results do you achieve? Social value had to be proven through doing. You had to accomplish something in order to be valuable.

Within this framework, people with intellectual disabilities were categorized as unproductive. They were on the receiving end of care rather than the giving end, and from a social accounting perspective, their existence was calculated as a cost.

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But in the AGI age, this formula breaks down.

When AI takes over all production, productivity can no longer be the measure of human worth. Just as factory robots manufacture goods, AI manufactures intellectual products: reports, analyses, creative works, services. AI produces everything. So where will human value be found?

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Yejun doesn’t produce anything in the conventional sense.

He doesn’t create outstanding work products. He doesn’t generate economic value. By conventional measures, he doesn’t do what we typically call “contributing.”

And yet his very existence gives something to everyone around him.

In caring for Yejun, I learned patience. In meeting his eyes, I learned how to remain present. Watching his pure joy, I was moved to reconsider what life is really about. He gave me the opportunity to love and to empathize, and through him, I am becoming a better human being.

To give those around you deep meaning simply by being — this will be the greatest form of contribution in the AGI age.

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In the future, the day will come when Yejun is no longer seen as someone who needs help, but as a teacher who shows us what humanity means.

In an age when AI can do everything, the role left for human beings is simply to be human. And Yejun is the person who demonstrates the value of that being most purely.

Perhaps this is the greatest gift AGI will give us: the chance to redefine human worth — not by productivity, but by existence itself. The opening of a world where people like Yejun are finally recognized for who they truly are.

CHAPTER THREE · Wild Analogies and the Uncorrupted Gaze

The Intelligence That Destroys Categories

When AI looks at a wild strawberry, how does it process it?

It analyzes the image pixel by pixel. It extracts color, shape, texture. It cross-references these against a learned database: fruit, rose family, edible, red food, summer seasonal. It classifies and defines the strawberry within these categories.

AI’s thinking operates strictly within categories. It learns from vast data, recognizes patterns, and identifies the most probable classification. This is highly efficient and accurate. But it can never transcend a category.

◆ ◆ ◆

Yejun’s mind worked differently.

In the moment he looked at the wild strawberry, something entirely different happened. The texture of those tightly clustered red seeds expanded beyond the visual into a tactile image. And that image collided with — and connected to — an entirely different category: the sacred symbols of Buddhism.

The edible and the sacred. In an instant, he shattered a wall that humanity has been building for thousands of years.

This is what I call a Wild Analogy.

◆ ◆ ◆

AI calculates similarity scores. It compares feature vectors between the strawberry and other objects, identifying the closest matches. But between a wild strawberry and the Buddha’s spiral curls, there is almost no statistical similarity. This connection could never emerge from AI’s calculations.

Yejun connected not similarity, but essence. The tactile image of the strawberry — tiny round seeds clustered together — resonated with the visual image of the Buddha’s hair. This is not data computation. It is a leap of sensation.

This is the very essence of the flexible intelligence that only humans possess: the ability, beyond the frames of logic and the walls of category, to find deep connections between things that seem entirely unrelated.

◆ ◆ ◆

Paradoxically, those who have received the most formal education often find it hardest to make this kind of leap.

We were taught that a wild strawberry is a fruit. We were taught that the Buddha’s curls are a religious symbol. These two categories are filed in separate drawers, and our thinking moves only within those drawers. We were trained that crossing categories is erratic — illogical.

But Yejun exists outside that framework. And so he creates unique and beautiful connections that we cannot even imagine.

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A Gaze Without Borders Between the Sacred and the Ordinary

To see something grand and sacred in something as small and common as a wild strawberry — this is a privilege available only to those who look at the world without prejudice.

Most of us see objects in terms of function. When we see a wild strawberry, the first thing that operates is a functional judgment: can it be eaten or not, does it taste good, is it expensive? We calculate the use before we discover the beauty. We weigh the utility before we feel the wonder.

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Yejun was not trapped by the functional socialization of “this is a fruit, so I should enjoy eating it.”

And so, in that moment, the wild strawberry could become for him both a work of art and an object of meditation. It became something to gaze at, not something to eat. Something to marvel at, not something to consume.

This is the emergence of wonder — something that cannot be converted into digital data, that only a living being can feel.

◆ ◆ ◆

What we call socialization is also, in a sense, a process of pruning and filtering — fitting ourselves into the components of a great system in order to survive.

To function efficiently, we filter out “useless” thoughts. We suppress “erratic” connections. We train ourselves to stay within categories. In the process, we lose the ability to look at the world with wonder.

Watching Yejun, I feel it: the human archetype that civilization surrendered for the sake of efficiency is still alive within him.

In the AGI age, this uncorrupted essence will become humanity’s most precious asset. In a world where everything is optimized and functionalized, the gaze that can see the Buddha in a wild strawberry — that is the domain AI can never replicate.

CHAPTER FOUR · The Hyper-Sensor — Hearing the World’s Whispers

Sensitivity as a Superpower

Yejun is candid about his emotions, and he picks up on environmental changes with remarkable speed.

If a piece of furniture in the house moves even slightly, he notices. If his mother’s tone of voice is different from usual, he senses it right away. The flow of air, the change in light, the subtle shifts in the emotions of those around him — things others pass over without thinking, he detects with extraordinary sensitivity.

In modern society, this kind of trait is sometimes treated as a problem — labeled as being “too sensitive” or “overreactive.” Being easily disturbed by change and reacting strongly to stimuli is considered unstable.

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But seen through the lens of the AGI age, this carries an entirely different value.

Yejun’s sensitivity is a Hyper-Sensor capacity — the ability to receive Pure Signal.

AI sees statistical data. It processes only quantified information and patterned signals. But there are signals in the world that cannot be converted into numbers: the flow of air, the atmosphere of a space, the subtle tension running between people. These things are not captured by sensors or caught in data.

Yejun reads them.

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Yejun’s ability to detect small changes that others pass over could, in a future society, serve as a sensitive detector — the kind that discovers system errors or new aesthetic possibilities.

In a world where everything is converted into data and optimized by algorithm, the ability to sense what lies in the gaps of data — to catch the dissonance that the system misses — will only become more precious.

To be sensitive means to be in deep resonance with the world. The ability to see the Buddha in a wild strawberry was possible precisely because of this remarkable power of observation. Because he detected the texture of those closely packed seeds with such fineness, the image could connect to the curls of sacred hair.

“Sensitivity is not a weakness. It is the ability to hear the whispers of the world that others cannot.”

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The Density of Observation

Yejun does not simply process visual information.

He observes a subject with piercing attention and defines its essence in a single phrase. Saying the wild strawberry looks like the Buddha’s hair is not mere word-association. It is the capturing of an object’s soul.

This is close to what I would call essential insight.

◆ ◆ ◆

AI must learn from millions of images to distinguish between a dog and a cat. It extracts features, recognizes patterns, calculates probabilities. An enormous amount of data and computation is required.

But Yejun arrives at the essence of a subject in a single moment of deep observation. Without millions of training images, he captures the essential connection between a wild strawberry and the Buddha’s sacred curls.

This is the power of Deep Observation. Unlike AI, which wins by quantity, this is the core of a human intelligence that wins by depth.

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To notice change well is to always be awake to the world — to be fully mindful.

Most of us are numbed by the everyday. We no longer truly see the things we see every day. We miss the details of the world, buried beneath familiarity. But Yejun is different. He observes the world in every moment as if seeing it for the first time. And so he discovers what others miss.

This power of observation will be re-evaluated as a core competency in the domains of art, education, and care in the future. While AI processes data, humans must read context. And reading context requires deep observation.

◆ ◆ ◆

The one sentence Yejun spoke — “the wild strawberry looks like the Buddha’s hair” — carries a resonance deeper than any philosophy book.

Now, every time I see wild strawberries, I think of the Buddha. An ordinary piece of fruit has been connected to a sacred symbol. Something to eat has become something to gaze upon.

In this way, Yejun is expanding my world and breathing new soul into things. He is my teacher.

CHAPTER FIVE · Humanity’s North Star

The Collapse of Standards

Until now, human civilization has rated human worth by productivity, logical efficiency, and the quantity of knowledge.

Schools lined children up according to these standards. Companies evaluated employees by them. Society as a whole used them to separate the successful from the unsuccessful.

By these standards, people with intellectual disabilities like Yejun were structurally categorized as deficient: slow to learn, inefficient in thinking, unable to accumulate much knowledge. The social role assigned to them was to receive, not to give.

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But when AI performs all of those functions perfectly, the standards lose their meaning.

Productivity? AI is thousands of times more productive than any human. Logical efficiency? AI is tens of thousands of times more efficient. Quantity of knowledge? AI can search and apply all of the knowledge humanity has ever accumulated in an instant.

The ruler by which we have been measuring human worth is breaking.

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When the age in which intelligence was power comes to an end, high and low intelligence will simply be received as one form of diversity — like being tall or short.

Just as being tall does not make you a more valuable human being, a high IQ will no longer make you a more valuable human being. In a world where speed of calculation is no longer an indicator of superiority, Yejun’s slowness becomes not a mark of inferiority, but a unique and valid characteristic.

Perhaps the reason people with intellectual disabilities have long been viewed as deficient is that we have been looking at humanity through a purely instrumental lens. Because we evaluated people by how efficiently they function, how much they produce, those who didn’t fit that standard had to become “deficient.”

AGI will bring the end of that instrumental perspective. And from a new perspective, Yejun will not be a deficient being. He will simply be a different one.

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The Anchor of Humanity

Imagine a future where everything is optimized by AI.

AI manages our schedules, helps us make decisions, optimizes our relationships. We communicate with messages written by AI, consume content recommended by AI, experience experiences designed by AI. Everything is smooth and efficient. There is no friction, no discomfort.

In such a world, what will humanity lose?

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Humanity will look to beings like Yejun and come to realize what it has lost.

No matter how human artificial intelligence behaves, it is a performance shaped by data — patterns learned and recombined to appear human. By contrast, the responses Yejun shows are a reality unmixed with any calculation.

AI’s empathy is an optimized response; Yejun’s empathy is genuine emotion. AI’s creativity is the recombination of patterns; Yejun’s creativity is the discovery of essence.

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For the people of the future, exhausted by the performance of socialization, someone like Yejun will be a comfort simply by being present.

“You don’t have to prove anything. You are enough, simply as you are.”

Yejun conveys that message with his whole being. Without producing anything, without achieving any result, he is valuable simply as he is. And that image will be a great fortress of consolation for the people of the future, worn out by performance and efficiency.

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In the AGI age, people with intellectual disabilities may well become humanity’s North Star.

In a world where everything is artificially optimized, they will serve as living reference points — constantly reminding us what it means to be truly human. Just as a ship lost at sea looks to the North Star to find its direction, humanity lost in the ocean of AI will look to them to find the direction of humanness.

EPILOGUE · Dreaming of a Cognitive Rehabilitation Center

I began the Nalza Project through Yejun.

Nalza began as an educational program for people with intellectual disabilities, but I now know it is not a simple educational enterprise. It is a civilizational declaration.

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When the AGI age arrives, humanity will face a new kind of crisis.

People who have grown accustomed to AI’s answers and lost the ability to think for themselves. People addicted to efficiency who have lost the capacity to enjoy the process. People so habituated to optimized responses that they can no longer feel genuine emotion.

What do they need? New technology? A more advanced AI? No.

What they need is cognitive rehabilitation.

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I dream of Nalza as a cognitive rehabilitation center for the future.

A place where humanity, exhausted by AI’s answers, comes to recover the muscles of their own thinking — the ability to analogize, connect, and imagine. A place where people train in the wild analogy: discovering essence beyond category, as Yejun did when he saw the Buddha in a wild strawberry.

A school of future humanity, where people learn to communicate not by the height of their intelligence, but by the depth of their being. A place where those addicted to efficiency and results relearn how to enjoy the process.

A repository of human heritage, protecting the texture of paper and the value of a handwritten line — things that cannot be replicated in digital form. A place that preserves and passes on the analog senses that AI cannot replace.

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All of this inspiration came from Yejun.

AI reads the dictionary; Yejun reads the world. AI calculates the correct answer; Yejun discovers the soul of things. AI pursues efficiency; Yejun creates meaning simply by existing.

“Children come to us as teachers, to educate us.”

I believe this with my whole heart. And I am convinced that Yejun is precisely the teacher humanity will need most in the age of AGI.

◆ ◆ ◆

“At the edge of intelligence, we will at last discover the heart.”

I hope this book becomes a small seed of that discovery.

And I hope Yejun’s world becomes a great source of comfort and inspiration for the humanity of the future.

Yejun’s mother

At the beginning of the Nalza Project