Artificial Intelligence and Time Management

Sharifova Saidaxon Kamolliddinjon qizi 

Farg’ona region Furqat district

11th grade at school 21 

Abstract

This article analyzes the impact of artificial intelligence (AI) on time management. Qualitative research methods were used to study students’ attitudes toward social media and to identify both its positive and negative aspects. The results show that AI has greatly simplified many aspects of human life, particularly in the fields of online education and remote work, which are convenient for many users. However, excessive reliance on technology can lead to time loss, health issues, and reduced productivity. In conclusion, although AI tools assist people in many ways, it is emphasized that they should be used in moderation.

Keywords: Time management, artificial intelligence, online education and work, time saving, moderate use, positive and negative effects.

Introduction

In recent years, many people have faced various challenges related to time management. Common issues include not being able to arrive on time, struggling to complete daily tasks or studies, and spending too much time on social media—leading to neglect of important responsibilities. This has gradually become a global problem. The purpose of this article is to briefly discuss effective time management strategies and suggest possible solutions. Additionally, the study seeks to explore the topic and provide a balanced conclusion.

Methods

This research employed a qualitative analysis methodology. Sources used:

A survey conducted among young people (50 students aged 17–29)

A three-week experiment on the use of AI-based tools

Previously published scientific articles and expert opinions

The survey covered aspects such as frequent use of AI, improper time allocation, and resulting challenges. During the experimental phase, participants were divided into two groups: one believed AI disrupts effective time management, while the other viewed time mismanagement as a personal issue. Changes in both groups were analyzed.

Results

The study revealed several key findings: Negative impacts of AI on time: Distracting content: AI algorithms on platforms like YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram recommend personalized videos that make users spend more time online. For instance, a person who opens the app for educational purposes might end up wasting hours watching unrelated videos. Digital dependency: Spending too much time on phones or computers reduces concentration on work or study.AI as a time-saving tool: Online education and remote work save commuting time and offer convenience.

New opportunities: AI helps people find online jobs, learn various skills through apps, and participate in digital projects.

Discussion

So, what do you think—is AI the main reason for poor time management? In some ways, this claim is valid, as modern society is becoming increasingly dependent on social media. Even when people watch useful content, they often waste significant time.

For example, a student may use AI for online learning but get distracted by entertaining short videos. As a result, they feel tired and, worse, lose valuable time. This issue is not limited to young people—it affects adults too. A 42-year-old person, for instance, might get so absorbed in humorous online content that they forget their tasks and lose focus, eventually running out of time. This situation strongly supports the topic of this research.

However, some people argue that AI actually helps save time by automating routine tasks and making access to information faster. Indeed, artificial intelligence can truly help save time. Online education, remote work, and staying in touch with loved ones from home—all of these contribute to effective time saving. In education or work, there is no need to spend time commuting. This is undoubtedly beneficial for people. However, as mentioned above, if a person cannot control their desires, they may become the real victims of social media.

Conclusion

It must be acknowledged that artificial intelligence has greatly benefited us—especially in improving learning efficiency, finding convenient jobs, and saving time. However, in pursuing these advantages, people often fail to notice that they are losing their health and valuable time. So, what is the solution? The answer lies in planning. If individuals organize their tasks on an hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly basis—and follow that plan consistently—AI will not negatively affect them.

Scholars also support this idea, stating that: “The only way to truly save time is through planned and organized work.”  This can be considered solid evidence for our argument. Secondly, setting limitations on social media usage is crucial. For example, restricting apps like YouTube, Telegram, Instagram, and Facebook to a fixed duration—say, two hours a day—can significantly improve time management. If YouTube is limited to one hour per day, the app could automatically close after that period, preventing overuse.

Such strategies would provide people with a major opportunity to manage their time more effectively.

References

1. ChatGPT

2. Abdukarim Mirzayev’s video lectures

3. Moral Education textbook for grades 9 – 11

Sharifova Saidaxon Kamolliddinjon qiziwas born on May 26, 2008, in the village of Kaldushon, Furqat District, Fergana Region, in a family of intellectuals.In 2015, she began her studies at School No. 21 in Furqat District, where she is currently an 11th-grade student. In addition to her school studies, Saidaxon actively participates in various extracurricular clubs. She speaks English fluently and, despite her young age, has earned more than 20 international and official certificates. She has also been an active participant in numerous projects.Her poems have been published by Lulu Press Inc., an official publishing house in the United States (California). Moreover, her scientific articles have been featured in the Uzbek journal “Yosh olimlar” (Young Scholars).

What is the Meadow and What is Love?

October Sunday 19 2025 

it was before the rains we went there. Through the shaded forest, well, truth be told it didn’t need shade as it was overcast. Yet that it is what a late October afternoon Sunday walk should have- and I did miss the butterflies and birds and insects that had gone away. Oh well. Time cycles seasons reasons. The flora and fauna have their nature and God-given logic. And the trees were golden and red, the leaves wildly strange and many shrivelled and decomposing.

Other people were not there. That in itself was marvellously fine. Perhaps i will have been found wrong, incorrect to have imagined the sea so far away when the northern fields were there for me all along. Perhaps I was selfish in that, and unappreciative. And I realized the meadow itself was love, if love is something that lasts when other things fade, if love is something that sustains when nobody is watching and if love says, ‘I am here, I am here, I am still here through it all just look and see me…’

Eternal Beauty

A woman is a rose in the distance!

She is the meaning hidden within the ribs.

When she is silent, the inspiration of her soul never ceases.

Rather, the world pays attention to the fluttering of her luminous thoughts.

She combs the light through her hair.

Faces blossom when she looks up and says, “Good morning!”

When she is silent,

the question subsides in the wind’s bosom.

Dreams are ashamed of their excessive splendor.

Her eyes are a window to light.

A deep charm melts the heart,

and sleeps on her eyelashes.

Her laughter… soothes long absences.

And pains fall asleep in her music!

She is eternal beauty,

When existence is quiet,

the universe is filled with splendor and radiance!

She is a woman who, when she loves, ignites the heart, 

and illuminates the ribs with more than words can encompass!

THE STAR CALLED PRIYE

My second mother wore a wide black, hat that exposed only her chin, but since I was right beside her, I clearly saw the contortion on her face, an ugly expression like the combination of a gleeful smile and a hateful sneer. Her black gown billowed in the wind, softly at first, then harshly, as the sky darkened and hesitant raindrops plummeted down as if the clouds themselves were grieving with us.

The priest’s solemn voice monotonously articulated the last farewell for Priye. Her embalmed body lay in the brown casket seven feet in front of us, quiet for the first time in seven months. Her picture was hugged to my chest, where her face blossomed with a pleasant smile that would forever haunt my dreams. The green, chiffon dress she wore in the picture was resting at the back of my wardrobe. I would wait for six months before wearing it along with all her clothes and jewelry that had become mine, even though it had only been seventy-two hours since she died.

Priye was my elder sister by three years. She was frail, sickly and short. But she was more intelligent than me, and she had a beautiful voice that mesmerized everyone in our school. Last year, her performance of Whitney Houston’s “I will Always Love You” was so breathtaking that our principal’s mottled face cracked a smile for the first time that term and he approached her in his black, pinstriped tuxedo to shake her hand. “That was marvellous. It reminded me of my late wife. She loved that song in our twenties,” he had croaked, looking wistful.

Priye had beamed with an ethereal radiance, looking more like an angel than a human being. If not for the leukaemia that ravaged her body…“Oh God, her mother died barely five years ago. Why?” my grandmother wailed in her wheelchair, her saggy cheeks throbbing with every sound she retched. “Why did she die so young?”

I looked at her, at the wispy patches of white hair on her head, and her wrinkled face. In eighty years. Priye could have resembled her. She would have enjoyed her old age, tending to her hibiscuses alongside a host of stubborn grandchildren. I pictured it for a moment, and gulped back a sob.

“Why?” Grandma cried again. She turned to look at me. “Priye, is this a dream? Wake me up!” She gestured at the coffin. “Wake Ifunnaya up, please!”

My second mother hushed her. “Priye is dead, Mama. The person you are talking to is Ifunnaya. The priest is still speaking.”

Did she ever wonder why Grandma kept making that mistake? Maybe not. Grandma’s eyesight was very poor anyway. Most times, she couldn’t see people until they were stooping very close to her nose. But I knew, and the truth was stuck in my throat like a goitre, something I couldn’t swallow, yet couldn’t spit out. Because my mother killed her before her time, I thought, answering grandma’s question silently, hugging Priye’s frame tighter. My mother was a more insidious disease than Leukaemia.

On those dreadful nights, three months ago, when Priye howled in her bed, my mother sang in her room, eulogizing God for bringing misfortune to all her enemies. She rocked expensive aso-oke to galas and to the birthdays of her clients while I held Priye’s hand and assured her, she was not alone.

In those moments, it hurt so much to remember that two years ago, she had been well enough to attend school, chirping tirelessly about everything like the Maths teacher’s knack for singing Fuji in class, her dreams about sailing the Atlantic in her own yacht and her subtle affection for a tall, nerdy boy in her class whose glasses were three times the size of his eyes and who always came first in Mathematics, even though my mother never gave her food for days. It was later that I knew that she poached food from her friends during lunch break, and she did it so prudently that they never suspected that she was being maltreated.

I remembered waking up late in the night, disentangling my second mother’s limbs from around me, and tiptoeing outside. I would go to the backyard with a nylon of biscuits for Priye. She always kept her window open so that I could throw the biscuits in. The window was two stories high so I was often successful two times out of thirty.

Many nights, I was totally unsuccessful, the biscuits thumping against the sliding glass or the wall. Most of the biscuits that made it in had been smashed into crumbs that Priye had to pour into her mouth.

That was when I noticed her fascination with stars. Those nights I woke up after midnight and raced to the backyard, I found her stargazing, with her window open, the chestnut curtain bunched behind her, her white nightgown draped over her skinny frame, looking as bright and quiet like the celestial bodies she stared at.

The only time I ever saw her differently was one night, months afterward, when my mother said she would not waste another dime of her late husband’s money on her disease and Priye latched onto her like a monkey and bit her neck. But after that, she apologized. Though, that night, she looked into my eyes with the intensity of a camera taking a picture. Her diary entry for that night read this: I think we human beings are more like stars than we think. We shine brighter when we start to fade.

It was as if she knew that she would die, so from that day onward, she said her goodbyes quietly. She confessed her love to the boy who told her sorry, he was in love with Zendaya, and she ran home without taking the bus, crying and laughing at the same time. She told me she was crying because he was so stupid, and laughing because she finally mustered up the courage to ask him out. All I did was stare at her, dumb, because I had no idea what it meant to have a crush on someone.

After she calmed down a little, she asked me to draw her, so I took my drawing book and drew her at her window, staring at the sunset. I should have painted the sky black to show it was night but I wanted the memory to be warm, not bleak, besides her skin tone was the colour of a brown sunset and I wanted that effect to show when I painted the drawing.

That night, she sat by the window in her satin nightgown with a crime novel in her lap, staring at the man selling suya on the busy street behind our house and the people walking, and she suddenly asked me a question.“Did you know that stars shine the brightest when they want to fade?” her laptop was playing a YouTube video of how a star becomes a supernova. 

She didn’t seem to expect my answer. She probably knew I didn’t know what she was talking about back then. Now that I remembered it, I could assume that she thought of herself as a supernova.“Ify, will you remember me after I’m gone?”

I just stood there in her room, petrified. I was bigger, healthier and more loved than her, but in that moment, I wanted to become her. I wanted to be the strong one, even if it meant our second mother would hate me.

“I wish my mother didn’t die,” she sighed, and looked at me with a sad smile. There were no tears in her eyes, only the shimmering darkness of her irises that portrayed her beautiful soul.

Believe me, I wanted desperately to, but I couldn’t tell her that her mother didn’t die five days after her car accident, mine did. And the woman who called me her child now was actually her own mother. This was the last thing my late mother told me. It was the secret only I knew.

I couldn’t remember my real mother’s face clearly anymore, but I remembered her dimples and dreads. She might have looked like Asa. She was our first mother and she loved Priye and me the same way. All I did was cuddle closer to Priye that night. I noted how she smelled like a flower garden. It was the soap that a chubby, jovial boy in her class gave her. She told me how expensive the soap was.

While I listened, I wondered why she didn’t realize that this other boy had a crush on her. We talked for hours uninterrupted because my second mother had travelled to Abuja and left us in a neighbour’s care. We pretended we were sleeping so he let us be. That night was the Champions league final so we weren’t his main priority. We heard him screaming and cursing from his room as his club conceded four goals during the match. We couldn’t help laughing at his plight.

Priye and I talked about many things until she began drifting off to sleep. I was often amazed at how quickly she slept. In a few seconds she was breathing softly, relaxed, her hand which moments ago had clutched mine now limp.

“This woman is your mother, you know?” I whispered so quietly that Priye might not have heard me. It was the best I could do.

And for a brief moment, I was sure she did not hear me.

“I know,” she said faintly. “You are Priye and I am Ifunnaya.”

.

Lucia Berlin
(1936-2004)

Lucia, Daughter

Northern lights in the sky
over Alaska her father
deep in mines, engineer
moving from mining
town to town
to tar paper shacks
to a boarding house
to a log cabin in the woods
long johns and a baby sister
then Father off to war. 

Waiting for him, waiting
under a treeless sky
air heavy with heat, dust
in El Paso with Granpa
the town dentist, mean
drunk and her mother
shut down, closed off
in a dark bedroom
with a bottle. 

Father’s new job: Arizona
a real house in the hills
the bright evening star
in the dark night sky
Mother in pretty dresses
baking cakes, playing bridge
picnics and potlucks
until the next move.

A prestigious position
in Santiago, Chile
a two-story Tudor
green lawns, fruit trees
purple iris, a gardener
Mother in bed all day
with a bottle.

Teenage Lucia the hostess
for her father’s social events
private school, rich friends
skiing, swimming, movies
dressmakers, hairdressers
nightclubs, balls, boys
then a dorm in Albuquerque
her girlfriends still in Chile
married with mansions
busy with children
but after the revolution
all her old friends
murdered
or suicides.

Lucia, Wife

She’s tall, lean, svelte
dark hair, sapphire eyes
at 17 still passive
when her parents reject
her 30-year-old lover
a Mexican-American veteran
throws her out of his car
never sees him again.

A few months later
she marries a sculptor
who rearranges her
hair, clothes, stance
and avoids the draft
with their first son
with a second on the way
he’s off to Italy
on a grant, with a girl
doesn’t see him again
for sixteen years.

A musician called Race
kind, quiet, a good man
talented Harvard grad
from a big warm clan
playing gigs on piano
gone while she’s home
with the babies
in a cheap rural rental
outside Albuquerque.

Dusty, silent except for
horses, cows, chickens, dogs
red chili on strings
drying in the sun
in an old adobe
rounded, wind-softened
the same dirt-brown
as the hard-packed earth
no phone
no stove
no running water
loads of diapers
she’s too alone
this pretty young girl.

Lucia, Lover

Race moves them
to an unheated loft
in New York City
he’s out all night
at his jazz gigs
she’s up all night
typing stories
while wearing gloves
while the kids sleep
in earmuffs and mittens

until a way out arrives
with a bottle of brandy
four tickets to Acapulco
another Harvard man
Race’s buddy Buddy
dark, handsome, rich
bad boy
with a drug problem

offering the sexy allure
of escape to hot sun
sky blue pools
white sand beaches
and crazy love
with a heroin addict.

She bites, writes
bears two more sons
an electric life
flying in Buddy’s plane
landing like crop dusters
for detox and retox
always fearful
of his dealer friends.

To keep him clean
they move away
to another land
live in a palapa
with a thatched palm roof
and a beach sand floor
on the edge
of a coconut grove
surrounded by mountains.

The boys love it there
amidst parrots, flamingoes
spearing eels and fat fish
dark nights in hammocks
swaying under rustling palms
in the soft ocean breeze
heady with gardenias
their paradise life

until Buddy gets bored
and the drug dealers come.

***

Lucia Berlin shared the stories of social outsiders with her own special brand of detachment, humor, and economy, presenting the brutality of blue collar life tempered by her compassion for human frailty. She was relatively unknown until eleven years after her death when a collection of her selected stories hit the New York Times bestseller list.

Born Lucia Brown in Alaska, she spent her childhood in mining towns all over the west. After her mining engineer father got promoted to an executive position, the family lived in Chile in relative luxury. She moved to Albuquerque for college, returning later for graduate school. 

Married multiple times, she lived in Manhattan, rural Mexico, and New Mexico. After leaving her third husband, a heroin addict, she took her four young boys and settled in California. 

As a single parent, Berlin worked odd jobs including cleaning woman, physician’s assistant, hospital ward clerk, and switchboard operator. Her stories were based on incidents she experienced herself in her difficult life. She would type late at night while the boys were asleep, a bottle of bourbon at her side. 

She eventually gave up the booze and remained sober, teaching writing at the San Francisco County Jail, Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, and University of Colorado Boulder. Lucia Berlin died in California at age 68.

Her books: 

A Manual for Cleaning Women: Stories

Evening in Paradise: Stories

Welcome Home: A Memoir

Originally from Boston, Mickey J. Corrigan hides out in the lush ruins of South Florida. She writes pulp fiction, literary crime, and psychological thrillers. Her poems have appeared in literary journals and chapbooks. A collection of biographical poems on 20th century poets is in press with Clare Songbirds Publishing.

Rain

Walid Alzoukani – Syrian Poet

The rain, resembling old coins,

tinkles 

beneath the dome of my high poverty.

It rubbed the goat of the night 

with myth

and placed its wet finger

on the lips of the sorrowful horizon.

It kissed the fingers of the rose 

to open her eyes.

The rain, rolling on the shy windows,

bleeds laughter,

piled beneath my window,

entered my heart,

which is poorer than a tree,

 without permission.

Mother!

Mother! I can’t find words to describe you.

You spend tons of sleepless nights.

Your heart is white, your words If I am sick, you pat my head. white, your intentions are white,

Mom, I love your smile

When you laugh, there is always joy and no sadness.

You are the joy of the family, my mother.

Without you there is no happiness and no smile

Rakhmiddinova Mushtariy Ravshanovna was born on March 1, 2011 in Gulistan district, Syrdarya region. She is currently a 9th grade student. Mushtariy is interested in writing poetry, reading books, drawing, and playing sports. 

So far, she has read more than 100 books. She appeared on television in kindergarten at the age of 3 and still appears on television. In the “Bilagon Bolajon” competition, she took 2nd place in English in the 2nd grade, and 3rd place in Reading in the 4th grade. She also took 1st 2nd 3rd place in handball and was awarded with medal certificates. She is a participant in the regional stage of the “Young Book Reader Kids” competition. She takes part in many competitions and projects. In the future, she will become a sign language teacher. She is preparing to enter college.

Her dream is to make everyone proud of Mushtariy and travel abroad. She has also participated in many anthologies and webinars. Currently, she has won more than 50 books, received more than 500 thousand in cash prizes and international, official certificates. She has participated in Olympiads and won honorable places.