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By now, it should be obvious to anyone with a functioning moral compass and a shred of intellectual honesty that Donald Trump is not a conservative. He never was. He never will be.

Trump is not a defender of tradition or a protector of liberty, much less a champion of moral decency. He is a narcissistic liar whose entire political identity is built on the cultish appeal of populism — a dangerous, tribal nationalism that has replaced principle with grievance and replaced wisdom with obedience to his sick ego.

He is a con man with a narcissist’s lust for power, a pathological liar whose every instinct tilts toward authoritarianism and a demagogue whose only consistent ideology is self-worship. The American right has been hijacked — not by a champion of conservative principles, but by a dangerous populist who sells emotional sugar to the angry and fearful. And millions have bought this poison.

It’s time to stop pretending. Trump is not Ronald Reagan reincarnated. He’s not even George W. Bush. He’s not interested in smaller government, individual liberty or constitutional fidelity. He’s interested in himself — his image, his control, his personal vengeance. If you think he’s fighting for your freedom, he’s fooled you. He’s fighting for your loyalty so you’ll protect him.

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I’m not sure whether I’m more impressed by the technical proficiency of the software developers behind ChatGPT — or if I’m more alarmed by the dystopian future that I see such software leading to.

What we call “artificial intelligence” is nothing but software. It isn’t intelligent. It has no consciousness. It has no actual awareness or understanding of what it produces. It’s just lines of computer code written to produce material that mimics human behavior. If you think of AI as some form of semi-consciousness, you’re buying into science fiction. This is nothing but software written by clever people — and it’s nowhere near as “smart” as you’ve been led to believe.

But AI software — such as ChatGPT and its competitors — is getting better and better at spitting out content that mimics what a human might have created with real thought. And I think this is dangerous.

As an experiment, I asked ChatGPT to create an essay in my own writing style. I didn’t give it a subject. This is the only instructions I gave the software: “Write an 800-word essay in the same style used by the writer of davidmcelroy.org.”

The results shocked me.

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I knew I was dead, but I wasn’t upset about that. I just felt shame that I didn’t have more to show for the life I had left behind.

This was different from any dream I’ve ever had. It felt more real than anything from waking life. At times, it was more beautiful and loving than anything I’ve experienced on this Earth. At other times, it was painful and I felt shame.

But I was asleep — and I’m not dead — so it had to be a dream.

This was the second time lately that I’ve dreamed about my death. The first time, I just dreamed that I had died. I saw my body as though I was a spirit who had left it. But the second time — this past Saturday night — was much more than that. It was a dream about meeting God and talking about the life I had left behind.

I was in the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, but I can’t describe it. The scene was dominated, though, by an intense light that was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It was brighter than any light I’ve experienced, but it didn’t hurt my eyes to look at it.

From that light, I felt what 19th century minister Charles Finney called “waves and waves of liquid love.” I felt small. I felt ashamed of my inadequacy. But I knew that this Creator of all the universe loved me unconditionally. I knew that this place was my home.

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