nothing 8
Wake up and live the dream. What a curse.
Every morning is the same, the exhaustion is set in and burnout all too real. Walking to the car to drive to work is uphill all the way. The commute is the best part. Parking and walking into the building goes against every fiber woven in the brain, a brain that can't stop the body from continuing on.
They need more of you, they squeeze so hard to get every drop out until you are fairly certain the pulp is even dry by now and the material slipping into their cup of production requirements is a dust void of any redeemable quality.
They want more. They fiend for it. Sit and write your funny little stupid stories, turn the camera on and fake your smile and plug the products in between the art you used to love to make for free. Play a game and do well at it or don't, either way make it entertaining. Paint like your heart is in it when you sold that heart last year for the dream. Sing about issues you fabricated because money plugged up the real problem.
The system wants content and the masses need to scroll, like, and share. You asked for the dream, you are there. Why complain? Your commute to your room was better than the art you would kill to make when forced to work a corporate job but now that job that seemed so meaningless takes on new perspective as something actually worthwhile. Even padding the pockets of the elite rich shareholders seems more tangible and rewarding than playing the videogames you used to love and give the people what they crave that you used to make for fun. The dust is snorted like cocaine by the masses and even if the quality is in reality higher quality they complain ever more in a ongoing perpetual need to do more and better.
The company of consciousness created and fused by the Internet gave a home for your niche interest turned life. A desk job starts to look like a luxury. How did you get here?
Well the world changed and started to value attention and attention is gained through creative content and that content is born of passion, passion the consumer wishes it had at a higher level that you used to possess. You spill that into your creations and now that gets monetized and published for everyone's eyes to inject, love, despise while they criticize and you realize it's all bound to burn you alive.
The hole dug by love if not crawled out of by determination becomes a bed of complacency. You curl up and take the abuse. You are used for your love for what you do even if that love has long been dead, ripped apart and sold as attention grabbing content for the people.
It's been an hour at your desk, have you made anything. Will it make people like you? Will it make people happy? Will a lot of people see it? Will it pay your bills? Come on it's fun, just do it already you are lucky to be able to do it at all let alone do it to make a fucking living make the ART YOU LOVE AND CUT YOURSELF OPEN TO FEED US ALL THEY NEED IT YOU NEED IT.
The soul is truly trapped in moment to moment serotonin seeking doom scrolling and pleasure seeking. Drink your wine by the bottle and watch the idiots and hot people live a dream that is a lie. Hopefully you don't become what you dream you can be. Scrolling is better than being what the world wants.