Today I looked at the statistics of Cursor, which over the past six months has transformed for me from a toy 'just for fun to see what it is' into a daily work tool. Even more — into a full-fledged partner with whom I have conversations, argue about syntax, and sometimes even concede in discussions about how best to structure code.

120 thousand lines. That's how much Cursor generated in the last 30 days. And it sounds like a death sentence for those who still believe in manual labor. I still edit the code myself — but it's no longer work, rather a ritual reminding me that I'm still human. The main time is spent on formulating thoughts so that not only I but also this artificial intelligence on the other side of the screen can understand them.

With the advent of a tool that not only writes code for you but does it well, I've started to accomplish much more. It's gotten to the point where any pet project ideas that I would have dismissed before — because I didn't want to spend even a couple of evenings on them — are now implemented literally at the snap of a finger.

For example, last Sunday I had an idea that it would be nice to track new subscribers to the blog. Said and done. More precisely, said by me, done by Cursor. It took no more than an hour from start to finish.

And then I thought it would be nice to keep a history of hookah sessions at home. I'm a big fan, you know, and I have a hookah shelf at home worthy of a mid-range hookah lounge. Before, I would have armed myself with Google Sheets. But now — an hour of time, and I have a bot that tracks everything and collects statistics.

We are definitely at a point where coding is no longer limited only by human capabilities. What used to take months can now be done in weeks. Or even days. Hours? Minutes? Who knows what will happen in six months.

But here's the paradox: instead of freeing up time, these tools make me work even harder. Now I don't just manage to do more, I *must* do more. The FOMO that used to be a quiet whisper now roars like a siren. It seems like everyone around is realizing their ideas, building projects, launching products — and if I don't spin at the same speed, I'll be left behind. Not just fall behind, but turn into a relic, a person who didn't manage to jump on this train in time.

And I spin. I spin like a hamster on a wheel, only now the wheel is not mechanical but digital, and it spins faster and faster. There are two possible outcomes: either I burn out in this fire, or I fly out of the wheel at such speed that I end up in the stratosphere. The third option — to stop and think about whether I really want to live at this pace — seems increasingly distant.

After all, I've almost forgotten what it means to 'stop'.