The Delusion Economy

Can we just admit something? Nobody is becoming a person anymore. Everyone is becoming a brand. And I don’t even mean influencers. I mean normal people. Regular civilians. Your cousin. Your ex. That guy from the gym who suddenly started posting “mentality” quotes after one podcast episode. Everyone is packaging themselves like they’re about to IPO on the emotional stock market.

We used to ask, “Who are you?” Now it’s more like, “What’s your positioning?” Are you the mysterious one? The healed one? The rich one? The gym one? The soft life one? The divine feminine one? The stoic alpha one? It’s all aesthetics. Nobody is confused anymore; they’re “in their villain era.” Nobody is insecure; they’re “protecting their peace.” Nobody is unemployed; they’re “building something quietly.”

It’s not that we’re lying. It’s just that we’re curating.

And the currency is attention. Not love. Not respect. Attention. Views. Engagement. The tiny dopamine spike when someone watches your story three times. We say we don’t care, but if attention was removed from the equation, half of our personalities would collapse like cheap Ikea shelves.

The funniest part is how strategic it all is. People will post gym progress, book stacks, airport selfies, “accidental” candid photos where they look like they just finished solving capitalism. Everyone is performing competence. Performing depth. Performing mystery. And the wild thing? It works. Because we are all consuming each other like content.

At some point, “working on yourself” stopped being about growth and started being about branding. Healing became an aesthetic. Discipline became a personality trait. Even chaos is curated now. “I’m so unhinged” but with perfect lighting and lip gloss. It’s hot, I won’t lie. A little bit of controlled insanity is attractive. But when everything is calculated, even spontaneity feels rehearsed.

I’m not above it even though I try to post minimal amount such as not to exceed over 25 photo total on my page and I have given myself a rule of deleting one old if I wanna post any new photo/ reels. It works like a charm so far. None of us are btw. We all know exactly which photos to post and which ones to archive. We know which angles make us look powerful and which ones make us look soft. We know when to disappear for three days so people start wondering. We understand scarcity. We understand intrigue. We understand supply and demand in a romantic and social sense. That’s not accidental. That’s literacy in the economy of attention.

But what’s weird is how erotic attention has become. Not in a sexual way only, but in a psychological way. Being watched feels intimate. Being desired feels like proof of existence. A story view from the right person can alter your mood for twelve hours. That’s not love. That’s neurological stimulation wrapped in validation. And we’ve normalized it so deeply that we don’t even question it anymore.

The danger is subtle. When identity becomes performance, you start making decisions not based on who you are, but based on what maintains the brand. You don’t ask, “Do I like this?” You ask, “Does this fit the narrative?” You don’t ask, “Is this peaceful?” You ask, “Is this impressive?” Slowly, quietly, you stop living and start managing perception.

And the more attractive you are, the more intelligent you are, the more socially aware you are, the more tempting it becomes to weaponize that. You learn how to speak in captions. You learn how to imply without confirming. You learn how to stay just slightly unavailable. You learn that mystery increases value. And suddenly you’re not a person anymore. You’re a limited edition drop.

It’s absurd. It’s funny. It’s slightly hot. And it’s also a little tragic.

Because attention is addictive, but it’s not stabilizing. It keeps you visible, but it doesn’t necessarily keep you grounded. The algorithm doesn’t love you. It just feeds you. And when the feed slows down, the silence feels personal.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if all of it disappeared. No stories. No likes. No silent spectators. Would we still feel powerful? Would we still feel desirable? Or would we have to build identity without an audience?

That thought alone makes people uncomfortable.

And maybe that’s the point.