A spiritual reckoning with capitalism in its final form—when identity becomes product and presence becomes performance
Preface
This piece continues where Capitalism as Parasitism left off.
That essay asked what happens when a system no longer generates value but extracts it—feeding off our time, attention, and hope.
This one asks what happens when that hunger evolves.
When extraction isn’t enough.
When the system no longer feeds off what we do—
but begins to feed on who we are.
This is not just a critique of social media.
It’s a reflection on a world where everything—work, creativity, spirituality, parenting, even healing—
is increasingly shaped by the logic of performance and the hunger for visibility.
We now live inside a system that consumes the human spirit to sustain itself.
And the more we package ourselves for survival,
the more we forget what we were ever trying to protect.
I. The Hunger Beneath the System
This isn’t true everywhere.
But for many of us—especially those shaped by Western economies, digital labor, or life online—
this is the diet we’ve come to normalize.
We used to sell things.
Then we sold time.
Then we sold selves.
Now—
we sell performances
about how to keep perfecting
the performing.
Capitalism has always been hungry.
But now, its appetite has turned inward.
It no longer just feeds off us.
It feeds on us.
Think of TikTok creators whose daily routines, relationships, and even breakdowns are monetized.
The more personal it gets, the more profitable it becomes.
Every word we share, every image we post, every feeling we shape into a narrative—
it all becomes content.
And content becomes currency.
Not in service of connection,
but in service of consumption.
We call this creativity.
We call this opportunity.
We even call this sovereignty.
But when your identity becomes your income,
when your visibility becomes your survival,
what you’re offering isn’t a product—
it’s you.
And when you become the offering,
eventually, you become the meal.
II. Wealth as Bait
No one ever calls to say,
“I have a way to make you wealthy.”
They say,
“You’re going to be so wealthy—if you just follow my advice.”
And if you do?
They make a living.
That’s the trick.
Wealth was never the point.
It’s the bait.
From coaching ads to crypto pumps to $997 masterclasses,
the script is always the same: “Buy in, and you’ll win too.”
But the business is rarely in your transformation—
it’s in your transaction.
Somehow, we’re expected to pretend
we don’t see the pitch behind the promise.
We’re supposed to thank the algorithm for giving us a shot—
even as it devours our energy, our presence, and our voice.
III. Content as Currency
We don’t just post.
We teach others how to post.
We monetize the algorithm.
We optimize the identity.
We brand the burnout.
Influencers now sell courses on how to be influencers.
Creators teach creators how to create content for other creators.
It’s not a pyramid—it’s a mirror maze.
And everyone’s just hoping they’re not the last one being watched.
Before the internet, creativity lived in bedrooms, basements, and community centers—
where making something didn’t require sharing everything.
And the further we get from the original self,
the more valuable the product becomes.
Visibility is survival.
Authenticity is strategy.
And exhaustion?
That’s just part of the business model.
This isn’t creativity.
It’s cannibalism dressed as content.
And the feast never ends.
IV. The Children Are Watching
They’re not learning how to live.
They’re learning how to perform.
They don’t see us working.
They see us recording.
Uploading.
Editing.
Refreshing.
Responding.
Optimizing.
Some kids now ask their parents, “Was that for your followers?”
Others are born into “family channels” where their first steps, tears, and birthdays
are monetized before they can speak.
They see the ring light, not the sunrise.
They hear us say “Hold on, I need to get this”
and know we mean
the take,
not their hand.
They see the metrics we chase
and learn what matters is what counts—
followers, views, conversions, reach.
We never got to ask,
“What if we didn’t internet?”
They may never know
there was even a choice.
In a 2022 survey, over half of Gen Z respondents said they’d choose influencer as their dream job—
a future built not on what you know,
but how well you’re known.
Because this is the air they breathe now:
To be seen is to exist.
To be packaged is to be worth something.
To be unmonetized is to be invisible.
What happens to a generation raised to believe
that being human isn’t enough
unless it’s content?
V. The Spiritual Cost
This isn’t just an economic shift.
It’s a spiritual one.
Because when you give yourself to the feed,
piece by piece,
you don’t just lose time—
you lose shape.
But what happens when the metrics go quiet?
When no one is watching—
do you still feel whole?
You start to wonder:
Am I worth anything if I’m not producing?
Am I lovable if I’m not visible?
Am I real if I’m not being seen?
A recent study found that nearly 1 in 4 teenagers
say their dream job is to be a YouTuber.
Not an artist. Not a teacher. Not a healer.
A personal brand.
This is the quiet erosion—
not of wealth,
but of being.
We were told we could turn ourselves into brands.
But we were never told the cost.
That presence would become a product.
That stillness would become suspicious.
That silence would mean you’re losing.
We are now generations deep
into a system that confuses performance with purpose,
and extraction with excellence.
And at some point,
the hunger to be seen
becomes the fear of being forgotten.
That’s not entrepreneurship.
That’s spiritual malnutrition.
VI. A Call to Stewardship
Cannibalism doesn’t always come with teeth.
Sometimes it comes with likes.
Sometimes it comes with praise.
Sometimes it looks like success.
But anything that eats you from the inside
while rewarding you on the outside
isn’t a gift.
It’s a warning.
Although we crave realness,
we continue to package it.
Although we long to belong,
we keep outsourcing our value to strangers.
We cannot keep feeding a system
that only grows when we shrink.
We cannot keep calling it freedom
when our children are inheriting performance
instead of presence.
And we cannot keep pretending
that authenticity can survive
when it’s always for sale.
In a world where AI can mimic our faces, voices, and words,
stewardship may be the only human act left
untouched by the algorithm.
This is not a call to quit.
It’s a call to wake.
Before the world swallows itself whole,
we need stewards—
people who know how to give,
how to tend,
how to be real when no one is watching.
Because survival is no longer just physical.
It’s spiritual.
And the most revolutionary thing we can do now
is refuse to make ourselves a meal.
Closing Reflection
How long can a world survive
where presence is packaged,
where identity is optimized,
and where meaning is always monetized?
How long can we live like this—
not just distracted,
but devoured?
And how long can we keep losing shape
before we forget
what we were ever trying to hold on to?
If this reflection stirred something in you, let it rest before you react.
And if you return to it, return as a steward—of presence, of meaning, of your one irreducible life.
This piece continues the thread from Capitalism as Parasitism.