I recently rewatched Limitless (2011), a glossy sci-fi thriller that feels eerily relevant in our current AI-obsessed moment. On the surface, it’s a story about a miracle drug that unlocks superhuman intelligence. But underneath, it’s a meditation on the moral cost of instant mastery.

In the age of artificial intelligence — where creativity, scholarship, and even spirituality are increasingly outsourced — Limitless becomes a mirror. It invites us to ask not what we can achieve, but what we might abandon along the way.

The film follows Eddie Morra, a struggling writer who is given a pill, NZT, that unlocks the full potential of his mind. With it, he becomes a genius overnight, mastering languages, deciphering complex theories, and reading the world with precision. At first, it is intoxicating: success without effort. But as his mind expands, so do the dangers. Dependency, loss of control, and the unsettling realization that brilliance does not necessarily make one better.

In this moment, with AI making its way into every facet of life, Limitless feels unnervingly relevant. The drug, NZT, echoes the way AI is promised to make us smarter, more efficient, even more creative. It is the same allure: instant mastery and boundless possibilities, but with a catch.

For example, Ritalin, Adderall, and other so-called “performance enhancers” have become normalized among college students seeking a cognitive edge. In this light, Limitless is less prophetic than reactive. It simply reflects an existing cultural trend — the pursuit of intelligence without inquiry, progress without pause.

I sometimes turn to AI, like Perplexity, Bing, or ChatGPT, to test a thought or help refine a sentence. But I am careful not to let it do the seeing for me. I still believe the most meaningful insights must come from experience, meditation, or grace.

We are already witnessing AI-generated novels, artwork, student essays, even sermons—products that mimic insight without enduring the journey that gives rise to it. When machines imitate the fruits of contemplation or creativity, it becomes harder to recognize what is truly human. The risk is not just in outsourcing labour, but in dulling the faculties that make us most alive: wonder, struggle, and discernment.

Yet the film does not simply glorify intelligence. It asks the uncomfortable question: What is the cost of having it all, without the wisdom to hold it? It is a timely reminder that acceleration, whether through a pill or a program, does not come without consequences.

If NZT magnifies the mind without anchoring the soul, AI risks doing the same on a global scale. We already see its capacity to distort truth, deepen inequality, and replace discernment with automation. What begins as convenience can quietly become dependence.

The question is not whether we can harness such power, but whether we should, and to what end. Like all tools of amplification, AI must be guided by conscience. Without humility, without restraint, intelligence becomes a kind of arrogance or blindness. And that is where Limitless leaves us: not in awe of what we can achieve, but wary of what we might abandon along the way.

Perhaps what’s most chilling is that, in both the film and our reality, the line between enhancement and erasure is perilously thin. Eddie’s transformation is not just mental but moral; the more powerful he becomes, the less he pauses to ask why. The same could be said of our relationship with AI. We marvel at what it can do, but rarely reflect on what it undoes. In the rush to optimize, we risk offloading not just thinking, but being — those slow, clumsy, and sacred processes by which we become fully ourselves.

In the end, Limitless is less a celebration of potential than a meditation on its perils. It reminds us that there is a difference between knowing and understanding, between speed and wisdom. And in this new age of algorithmic ascension, we would do well to remember that the soul does not respond to shortcuts. Real insight, like real love or real prayer, cannot be outsourced. It must be earned through silence, struggle, and the long apprenticeship to mystery.

by Yahia Lababidi

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Yahia Lababidi is a culture critic and the author of more than a dozen books, most recently: What Remains to Be Said (Wild Goose, 2025) and Palestine Wail (Daraja Press, 2024). His forthcoming work is a collection of essays on art and mysticism, tentatively titled I, Testify (Ayin Press, 2026).