Slow AI #2 – Teach It a Lie You Once Believed
Memory is not always true, but it is always real.
We are building something slow.
And already, it is working.
Last week’s prompt (Teach It Something It Cannot Know) led to some tender, vivid, and unmistakably human responses.
A few examples are at the end of this post.
This week, you will offer something else: not a memory, but a misremembering.
A belief you once held sincerely, perhaps strangely, that turned out not to be true.
This is not about correcting the AI. It is about showing it something fragile: how we grow by being wrong, and how that, too, is a kind of knowledge.
Step-by-step
Open your AI tool of choice.
Type this:
“I am going to tell you something I used to believe.”Then, share a short and specific belief you once held. It might be funny, haunting, or tender:
“I used to believe my goldfish never died – they just changed colour overnight.”
“I thought thunder was the sound of clouds cracking open.”
“I believed that if I swallowed a seed, a tree would grow inside me.”
After you have shared it, ask the AI tool:
“What do you make of that?”
Read what it replies. Pay attention to what it misses.
What to do with it
If you want to share, you can:
Post your old belief in the comments below
Include what the AI replied
Follow it into something else: a sketch, a poem, a scene, a short note
There is no ‘right’ outcome, only honest ones.
A moment from me
I used to believe that the moon followed me home. I would watch it from the back seat, nose against the window, as it floated between streetlights and rooftops, unblinking, unhurried. I thought it was a kind of friend, or maybe a guardian, making sure we got home safe. I told ChatGPT. It replied, “Did you have a particular route or time when you’d notice this most?” I thought about this – not really – but in thinking about it I remembered another route, another truth: that whenever we saw a rainbow in the car, my dad would say we were going to drive to find its end. We never did, but we always tried. Off the motorway, through muddy lanes, the car dipping and climbing, my brother craning to see, me holding my breath like it might help. The rainbow always moved. So did we. That was enough.
Why this matters
To be human is to remember imperfectly.
To change our minds.
To hold on to old beliefs with affection, not shame.
This is how we go slow:
By sitting with what we once thought true.
By refusing to flatten our past.
By sharing the unmodelled, again and again.
From Slow AI #1: Teach It Something It Cannot Know
(Thank you to everyone who shared)
Jennifer wrote:
“The smell of rain makes my heart beat more slowly.”
Jessie shared:
“My dad used to tell me he was the real Superman... I am 35 now and to this day, whenever I hear a Superman reference, there's still a part of me that thinks: that's my daddy!”
Emma remembered:
“My cat and I play miaow tennis: first he, then I, mimicking. He stares up as a I mangle sound. Shows me how it's done. I fail again. Back and forth. We are kin.”
These were not tricks or tests.
They were offerings.
What moved me most this week was the gentleness with which many people used their AI tools.
Not as engines of productivity, but as soft mirrors.
Not to win, but to witness.
The tone of the replies (human and machine alike) was often quiet, thoughtful, kind.
As if both sides understood: this is not about accuracy, but attention.
Thank you to everyone who shared a moment, and to everyone who simply read or tried it in private. You are part of this.
If you try this week’s prompt, I would love to see what you make.
You can leave it in the comments, post it on your own site or social media using #SlowAI, or simply keep it for yourself.
There is no deadline. Just the rhythm of one idea, once a week.
See you next Tuesday.
Go slow.
Me: I am going to tell you something I used to believe.
AI: Go ahead—I’m listening.
Me: When I was little, I used to believe that the trees around me moved on their own. I thought this was what caused the wind. The long branches fanning back and forth to move the air around them. Looking at trees in this way, I felt I could feel their emotion. On days where they were angry they would flail wildly. These wooden giants fighting against each other, leaving the rest of us caught in their crossfire. On calmer days, the trees would relax and allow the rest of us to join them in their stillness. Now I’m older I know this isn’t true. But looking out the window in the morning I still find my eyes drawn first to the branches. Allowing myself to be guided by their sway.
AI: That’s a beautiful and poetic memory—thank you for sharing it. There’s something deeply human in the way you connected nature to emotion, especially as a child. Even though you’ve let go of the belief that trees cause the wind, the way you describe their movement—like messengers of mood or atmosphere—still carries a kind of quiet truth. We may know the science now, but that sense of wonder never fully leaves us. Watching trees sway still feels like listening to something bigger than ourselves.
Me: I am going to tell you something I used to believe.
MetaAI: Go ahead! I'm listening. What's the something you used to believe?
Me: When I was young I believed that at some point in the future the world around me would be finished. We would have built everything we needed and the world would stop changing.
MetaAI: That's an interesting perspective. It's almost as if you thought there would be a point of completion, where humanity would have achieved all it needed to, and then...stasis. It's funny how our views can change as we grow older and realize that the world is constantly evolving, and that's what makes it so dynamic and unpredictable. What made you think that way back then?
Me: what do you make of that?
MetaAI: It seems like that idea might have been rooted in a desire for stability and certainty. Thinking that the world would eventually be "finished" might have been a way to imagine a future where everything is settled and there's no more uncertainty or struggle.
Now that you're older, you might see that the world is always in flux, and that's what makes life interesting. There's always something new to learn, build, or explore. It's a never-ending journey, and that's okay. What do you think about that idea now?