Code isn’t just a tool—it’s a reflection of the coder’s mind, a part of their soul turned into logic. When I write code, it becomes mine. I take care of it, I understand it, I think about it. Even when I stop working, the code stays with me, like a thought I can’t let go. It feels alive, like something I’ve created, something that matters.
But when the code comes from an LLM or someone else, it’s different. I might use it, but I don’t really make it mine. I don’t take the time to fully understand it. I let others—or the machine—do the hard work. And often, it feels easier to just start over or forget it.
This kind of code feels distant, like it has no home. It’s less work for me, and that can feel good, like letting go of something heavy. But at the same time, it feels empty—like something is missing.
Maybe when we stop owning our code, we lose more than just control. Maybe we lose a piece of what makes coding human.
// Functionally correct. Morally bankrupt.
// Just like the rest of us.