Somewhere along the line, the muse got monetised. And now? Creatives are expected to reprogram themselves as “content” just to stay relevant. What once took months of solitude, odd rituals, heartbreak, and breath, must now be delivered by noon and post-ready by 3pm. With a hook. A hashtag. (Not that either carries much currency anymore.)
What used to be called a body of work is now a pipeline. A funnel. A feed.
But here’s the thing: over time I realised I didn’t graduate into this piece of me just to go viral. I incarnated into this to become “vital.” Not for others, but for my own sanity.
Born a storyteller, I’ve lived inside narrative since childhood. To build characters who feel like fragments of memory. To shape worlds I could live in. It’s not a tertiary skill, it’s like a source code. My orientation system. These stories were and still are my heart’s narcotic. To be forced into 30-second reels feels like having that compass ripped out. Disorienting. Like being asked to trade the wonder of myth for dopamine.
So if you’re here reading this, thank you. It means you’re the kind who can still smell the difference. Between performance and presence. Between the pose and the pen.
At some point I had to make a choice, to create a space that isn’t engineered for reach alone. To point its compass true north, where success isn’t measured in numbers but in resonance.
And no, don’t worry, I’m not here to rant about algorithms or romanticise the “forgotten creative” bullshit. This isn’t bitterness. My narrative narcotics are a quiet offering back to the craft. A call to the muse to ensure she always knows I am here waiting on the other end of the line.
Because storytelling within us will never die. The content virus hasn’t killed it, it’s just pushing us to split the timelines into two categories: content for rapid consumption, and story for the longer love affair. Because beneath the screen, a part of us still aches for narrative. For characters we can live inside. For stories that don’t end when the post does.
So here’s a breath. A heartbeat. A space for me to remember, maybe one for you too. Some creations were never meant to be only “content’. Some characters within us are too alive to be compressed into a scroll, they demand a mainline into the vein, not a meme.
And some of us are still here, writing them anyway.