Armandovieira

I’ve always found it difficult to fit myself into a single category. When people ask what I do, the simplest answer is “I’m a physicist.” But truthfully, I don’t see myself as just that—at least, not in the way people imagine physicists. I suppose if I were to give an honest answer, I’d say I’m an artist who happens to use the language of physics to express the patterns I see in the world. My mind floats between abstract and playful realms, balancing the sharp precision of science with the fluid creativity of art and writing. I find beauty in symmetry, joy in equations, and a kind of poetic grace in the dance of particles. If the universe is a grand canvas, then physics is the medium through which I paint, but the lines between scientist, artist, and writer are blurred. From an early age, I was drawn to two seemingly disparate worlds: science and storytelling. I remember poring over books about quantum mechanics with the same fervor I reserved for writing poems in my notebook or sketch...

I live in many worlds. Sometimes it feels like I’m standing at the center of a constellation, with different stars representing different aspects of my life, each shining with its own unique light. On one side, I’m a physicist, immersed in equations, unraveling the mysteries of the universe. On another, I’m a cook, lost in the warmth of a kitchen, where science gives way to intuition and taste. Then there’s the world where I’m a father, guiding a small hand through the intricacies of life, experiencing the joy of rediscovering the world through a child’s eyes. And finally, I’m an entrepreneur, building AI systems that push the boundaries of what technology can do. Balancing these different aspects of myself isn’t always easy, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Each world informs the other, blending together in ways that continually surprise and challenge me. Let’s start with cooking—perhaps the most unexpected world for a physicist. Most people don’t see the connection between scien...

 In the world of science fiction, where our imaginations have run wild for decades, the idea of building robots that look, think, and act exactly like humans has captivated audiences. From the eerie realism of "Westworld" to the ethical dilemmas of "Ex Machina," sci-fi has explored the many consequences of creating machines that are essentially indistinguishable from their human creators. While the allure of crafting lifelike robots is understandable, there are compelling reasons why this may not be such a good idea after all. One of the biggest dangers of making robots too human is the psychological discomfort it creates, a phenomenon known as the "uncanny valley." When robots become almost but not quite human, they can evoke a deep sense of unease in people. They look like us, but something is off—their expressions are too stiff, their gaze too empty, or their movements slightly too mechanical. This unsettling feeling is not just some minor quirk; it cou...