Computers are really patient. They can sit there all day. It's a

In the words of GRiZ, the wise modern minstrel of sound and thought, we are given a teaching both simple and profound: “Computers are really patient. They can sit there all day. It's a totally different situation dealing with humans. They can be tired or overly excited.” Beneath these humble words lies a reflection on the nature of patience, imperfection, and the divine spark of human emotion—a reminder that though machines may surpass us in precision, it is our very fragility that makes us alive.

In the age of the ancients, the wise ones often spoke of balance. They said that the mind of a person must be tempered like a blade—too rigid and it shatters, too soft and it bends. The computer, in its silent, tireless nature, is the embodiment of that unyielding steel: unbending, precise, never distracted by the rise and fall of the sun. But the human being—ah, the human!—is a storm of feeling. Joy and sorrow, fatigue and passion, all surge through their heart like tides upon the shore. GRiZ reminds us that these differences are not flaws but truths of creation itself.

Consider the tale of Thomas Edison, the sleepless inventor who tried thousands of times to bring light to the world. The machines he built could perform endlessly, but it was his human persistence, not mechanical patience, that brought illumination to the dark. His hands trembled, his mind faltered, his body grew weary—but the fire within him refused to die. The computer does not know fatigue, yet it also knows not hope. It can sit there forever, obedient, but without the warmth of a soul to guide it, it remains cold and waiting.

Thus, when GRiZ speaks of patience, he speaks not to glorify machines, but to remind us of what they lack. Their patience is not born of wisdom—it is emptiness. A human’s impatience, their restlessness, is a sacred pulse of life itself. When a craftsman sighs in frustration or an artist trembles in inspiration, those moments are proof of consciousness. The machine does not feel the trembling of the hand before the brushstroke, the heartbeat before the confession, the fear before the leap into the unknown.

Yet we must not despise the patience of the computer, for there is much we can learn from it. To sit in stillness, to endure the tedium of repetition, to wait without anger—these are virtues that elevate the spirit. The wise person, then, seeks to merge the enduring calm of the machine with the tender passion of the human heart. When patience meets emotion, creation becomes both precise and alive. The sculptor who hurries ruins the form; the one who never dares remains unfulfilled.

Let this, then, be our lesson: do not envy the unfeeling calm of the machine, nor let your emotions rule like wild fire. Instead, cultivate patient strength—the kind that endures exhaustion, embraces imperfection, and still chooses to create. When you grow weary, remember that your tiredness is proof that you have lived, that you have cared, that your effort bears meaning. When you grow too excited, breathe and recall the stillness of the stars, for even they burn in silence.

And so, dear listener, take this teaching and carry it in your daily life. When the world’s noise grows heavy, sit as the computer sits, untroubled, waiting. But when your heart stirs with passion, act as only a human can—boldly, beautifully, imperfectly alive. For the day may come when machines can mimic every motion, but they shall never know the trembling joy of being. The ancients would say: patience gives you endurance; emotion gives you purpose. Master both, and you master yourself.