The internet is where dreams go to die

Trying to escape the obsession with numbers and start creating again for the sake of it.

collage by my beautiful girlfriend @sugartries

My B5-sized notebook when I was thirteen was full of stories. Though it wasn’t exactly portable, I still carried it around and wrote about anything I could think of—nail-biting crime stories, cliché high school romances, and even mystical fictional tales about the Nephilim.

Every day, I’d churn out chapter after chapter, like my own little factory of imagined worlds. Writer’s block didn’t exist; I didn’t know about perfectionism, nor did I know about self-doubt.

Before I knew it, the factory closed down.

My notebooks were left to decay on a shelf or in boxes—I’m not entirely sure—right next to where my wide-eyed wonder used to be.

Does losing this part of me come with growing up?

I envy my kid self

Don’t you envy your kid self sometimes, too? I do, especially when it comes to creating art.

Back then, it wasn’t about the numbers, the approval of internet strangers, or whether what I wrote was or wasn’t good. Okay, maybe I cared about the last part a little bit, but it never stopped me.

I was too busy being curious, too occupied with being blissfully unaware of the looming realities ahead of me—insecurities, fear, anxiety, failure, not being good enough, other people being better, etc.

13-year-old me was probably more resilient because she didn’t care about people’s opinions, or perhaps, she was a tad rebellious.

She listened to screamo, sported weird haircuts, and spent more time hoping to break free from the shackles of Catholic school rather than studying. She even failed a class because she was too busy finishing a book. Oh, god, I sound so insufferable. But you’ve got to hand it to her—she knew how to do her own thing.

Sometimes I wonder what happened for me to lose her, or if she is still here, deep down. I miss my curious mind and how I had my own little world the internet didn’t know about.

Now, just sharing my Substack on my IG story is enough to make me spiral into a full-blown panic attack.

Does your art have value?

I’d have to admit, as soon as I post something, I spend a few minutes lingering on the social media platform, with sweaty palms from constantly refreshing to seeing if anyone will give it a like. It’s almost embarrassing if it gets ignored!

I mean, is your post on Substack good enough if people don’t even know it exists? Is the photo carousel of your outfits on Instagram even worth looking at if the majority of your followers ignore it?

I know, I know, the answer is yes, but a part of me feels otherwise at times. Come on, I know I’m not alone here. This is why we’re seeking solace on this website.

It’s as if everything we do has to have an audience, doesn’t it? Everything boils down to numbers. If you’re trending, you’re doing something right, and the algorithm is on your side!

I’ve been trying to escape this thought process because I don’t want my art, my self-expression, to be just a commodity.

Everything is tainted by how capitalist society asks us to behave: There should always be a return, or else, what was it for, really?

Where do we find our value in art?

In a world that rewards intellectuals—never the dreamers and romantics—I can’t, for the life of me, bring myself to continue what I’ve been doing since I was a kid.

Who do you create for?

I believe it’s in an artist’s nature to be self-absorbed—to feel that there always has to be an audience. And not just any ordinary audience. It should be one that’s impressed, seduced, enraptured—bellies full of the idea that you, a mere mortal, have descended from the realms of the gods to deliver a gift to humankind.

Most of us are chronic people-pleasers, but it’s not that. Maybe we just want our art to make an impact, to stir something, if not change anything.

It’s not fair to villainize our need for validation (I might be talking to myself here), but still, maybe, it’s affecting artists more than it should.

Would it help to say that the only one you need to please is yourself? Perhaps, but maybe then, no one would be pleased at all.

So, who do you create for?

I care a lot about what people think.

There, I said it. I created a whole Substack post worth a thousand words just to skirt around the statement that, yes, I care a lot about what people think, so now I’m admitting it!

Maybe I need to finally cross off The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck from my TBR, or maybe, I just need to fucking breathe.

Because, contrary to what it feels like, the world will not end if people don’t like me or the stuff I create. Do I even like everyone?

Creating for the sake of it

Maybe nothing really matters, and we could just try creating for the sake of it. But really, should there be a deeper reason behind why we do things?

Isn’t “I love it” enough? Why don’t we make it so?

The constant search for validation is ruining how we make art, when it should be for self-expression, for fun, for life—and not about that ‘how many likes would this get’ bullshit.

I guess I’ve been spending more time on the internet than actually spending time away from it to think for myself. I don’t want to be constantly influenced by what I see each time I scroll that I forget to have my own thoughts and my own drive to do things.

Like my kid self, I’d like to believe I’ve retained that quality of being rebellious. And while I don’t listen to screamo anymore, I do know how to listen to the voice inside my head better—though maybe that voice has been my kid self all along. If so, she’s gotten so smart, and I’m proud of her.

How do we escape?

Being on Substack for more than a month has given me a weird sense of freedom, despite my cynicism.

Is it the fresh, lingering promise of the new year, or perhaps it’s an anomaly—a weird kind of hormonal thing that makes me want to run around a meadow and romanticize the shit out of life, as if I were Fraulein Maria in The Sound of Music, enjoying her solo, not knowing she was late for her return to the Abbey?

Whatever it is, I hope I don’t lose this feeling again.

I guess the only way to escape is to pretend that I’m that little kid again, writing in her B5 notebook, but this time, I have better style and I’m typing on my iPad (it’s 2025!)—definitely still not portable for someone with scoliosis, though.