That context made what came next even more powerful. Last year, I participated in a meme coin project. It was a resounding failure, but it sowed something valuable: the creative impulse. I started designing graphics for the campaign and, pressed for time, ended up exploring SeaArt, a platform for generating images from instructions. What I found was a fascinating frenzy: hours of writing manual prompts, fine-tuning angles, styles, expressions, and colors. The pieces that emerged, at least for me, were a small success.

Although the project ended, it left another door open: the world of digital avatars, what I call a metahuman. I use that term—still vague, still under construction—to refer to a digital identity interwoven with a human. It's not just a character; it's someone who inhabits a space where others also invent lives, create groups, celebrate weddings, throw parties, or get jobs.

Many believe the metaverse was a failed Silicon Valley experiment. I think differently: there's an immense metaverse that already exists, without helmets or haptic suits, supported by thousands of avatars from all countries and genders. Every day they generate such a staggering amount of content. And the great unknown is behind the screen: almost no one knows who is who. What we see is merely what each person chooses to show. There are men who present themselves with female avatars, furries, impossible creatures... all living together, creating genuine friendships and complex bonds.

Even Mark Zuckerberg—whom many gave up on his metaverse—actually enabled another scale of the same: a digital ecosystem where massive content is produced, much of it generated by AI, and where accounts are rarely penalized for experimenting with identities or formats. Doesn't that resemble a parallel metaverse, woven from algorithms and human creativity?

But that freedom comes with risks. In my own exploration, I conducted something similar to a case study. Many believe the metaverse was a failed Silicon Valley experiment. I think differently: there's an immense metaverse that already exists, without helmets or haptic suits, supported by thousands of avatars from all countries and genders. Every day they generate such a staggering amount of content. And the great unknown is behind the screen: almost no one knows who is who. What we see is merely what each person chooses to show. There are men who present themselves with female avatars, furries, impossible creatures... all living together, creating genuine friendships and complex bonds.

Even Mark Zuckerberg—whom many gave up on his metaverse—actually enabled another level of the same thing: a digital ecosystem where massive content is produced, much of it generated by AI, and where accounts are rarely penalized for experimenting with identities or formats. Doesn't that look like a parallel metaverse, woven from algorithms and human creativity? What started as a game evolved into social learning. One person told me: “The real world is shit; the metaverse is another life. I can do things there that I can't do in the real world.” She was about to graduate from an important degree and confessed to being terrified that someone would discover her real identity. Her need for protection led me to further investigate data protection and how AI, if forcibly introduced, will multiply the risks of exposure.

That year of observation allowed me to understand that these spaces aren't just entertainment. For many people, they're thresholds: places to inhabit dreams, soothe pain, or escape hostile realities. They're also fertile ground for abuse or unethical content. I've seen healthy communities that take care of each other, paying attention to users who are too young or people with mental health issues. But there are also dark areas, where dissociation and the alternation between real and fictional lives become profound.

Even those who don't create a complete avatar are beginning to alter their image with AI: changing clothes in a photo, lengthening themselves, becoming thinner. They construct parallel, increasingly believable existences. This practice touches emotional nerves and raises serious questions about mental health, identity, and boundaries.

Telling this isn't easy. I struggled to find a way to weave my notes together, because my mind tends to scatter between ideas, details, and discoveries. But I think the important thing is to show that we're not talking about science fiction or passing fantasies: these dynamics have already infiltrated social life, and the line between play and reality is becoming porous.

The conclusion, if there is one, is twofold. On the one hand, this new landscape opens up creative possibilities and vibrant communities. On the other, it forces us to face an uncomfortable fact: artificial intelligence has been forcibly induced into everyday life. It wasn't a slow or consensual choice; it was installed in every app, every feed, every work tool. This sudden arrival complicates the call to "inhabit spaces with awareness."

If AI shapes the experience before we can decide how to use it, how do we build a healthy relationship with digital worlds? Perhaps the solution lies on three fronts: critical literacy, regulation that prioritizes human dignity, and communities capable of setting their own boundaries. Fixing the mess won't be simple, but it will be possible if we understand that technology isn't destiny: it's a field of decision-making, and every avatar—human or artificial—must fit into a pact where identity, well-being, and ethics have equal weight as innovation.