Proof of Real

In the age of AI today, you can generate 500 perfect logos before lunch. You can create entire brand campaigns with a single prompt, synthesize your voice, clone your art style, and distribute a video essay starring your AI self, reciting your AI-written script, to an audience of AI-curated feeds.

It’s beautiful.
It’s fast.
It’s eerily real.

And it’s a problem.

Because in a world where anyone can make anything, things are in abundance, and it leads to a bigger question: How do you prove if you're the original creator?

The Sorcerer's Broom

There’s an old story in Fantasia — The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

Mickey Mouse is left alone with a magical broom. To save time, he casts a spell and automates the chore.

It works. At first.

Then the broom multiplies. A dozen, a hundred, a thousand copies all doing the same task. Water floods the room. The copies won't stop. Mickey has no control. The spell he cast is now consuming him.

That’s AI today.

You wanted help to write a blog post, to make an artwork.
Now there are 50 AI-generated blogs on Medium that sound just like you, so many inspired artworks thanks to you. All of it brilliant, all of it polished.

So how do you prove you're the one who started it?

The Original Doesn’t Matter — Until It Does

AI is good. That’s not the issue.
It’s too good. Too accessible. Too frictionless.

The skill ceiling has flattened, and with that comes a strange consequence: you lose the meaning of originality.

A song, an image, a sentence — they’re all just data now.
All born from the same models, the same datasets, the same prompt structures.
Slowly but surely, authorship becomes an afterthought.

The copy gets liked.
The remix goes viral.
The clone wins the algorithm.

The original? It becomes a quiet footnote, if it’s even acknowledged at all.

And if that continues, we stop asking who made anything.

The Blockchain Re[Solution]

This is where blockchain, surprisingly, starts to make sense again.

Not as currency. Not as hype.
Not as some half-dead NFT fad desperately clinging to cultural relevance.

But as provenance.
A timestamp.
A source of truth.

In a world of infinite, perfect duplicates, you don’t need ownership.
You need origin.
You need a public record that says: This is the genesis.

Blockchain doesn’t stop AI from copying your style.
But it can prove you did it first.
It can preserve the moment of creation, the chain of revisions, the fingerprint of authorship.

That might not seem like much now.
But in a world where synthetic content will outnumber human-made by orders of magnitude, that kind of verification becomes sacred.

The New Cultural Infrastructure

What GitHub did for developers, blockchain can do for creators.
A public ledger of creativity.
A transparent trail of thought.

This isn’t about clout. It’s about cultural continuity.
It’s about remembering who made what, in a world obsessed with what came next.

We’re not heading toward a creative collapse.
We’re heading toward a creative blur — where style is mass-produced, and meaning is optional.

AI makes content.
Blockchain remembers who did it first.

Because if we don’t build systems that recognize human authorship now,
we’ll forget what it even looked like.

The Apprentice’s Lesson

Mickey didn’t set out to break the world; he just wanted to skip the hard part.
That’s most of us now.

We cast our little prompts.
We delegate the work.
We marvel at the results.

And before we know it, the room is full of copies — beautiful, infinite, and indifferent.

AI gave us abundance.
But it forgot to teach us how to remember.

That’s why we need something else.
Something that helps us trace it back to its source.

Blockchain doesn’t stop the broom from multiplying.
It just tells the world who cast the spell.

And in the era of perfect copies, that might be the last thing that still matters.