Commodification of Emotion: When a poem seared on the iris of the reader was a terrain of infinite wonder only through the fluttering of an eyelash, when beauty wasn’t objective, when routine wasn’t a windowless cavern of boredom — when self-expression appreciated subtlety, and there was no such thing as triviality.
I remember this one Byron poem and how, incandescently, he described an ageing feeling, and I felt that he was too “histrionic”, never realising the extent of numbness our modern outlook on life has inspired within us. Do we really have to scream our suffering out into the abyss (or the internet) for it to signify anything at all? Maybe the reliance on exaggerated emotion for catharsis didn’t start with the creation of YouTube but the day keyboards replaced typewriters. It’s not a trip down “the good ol’ days” , only a reflection on what has become of us.
When apologies were etched within blood or flowed through ink on a paper already sodden with tears, did emotion have more reverence? Or does running mascara and elaborately placed blush on the nose as you stare into the camera proclaiming the depth of your innocence to millions who have already presented their verdict count more?
At least novels were labelled “fiction” as they stood on the bookshelf silently containing tales of emotional fireworks and misplaced hopes — YouTube vlogs don’t contain cautions, and familial turbulence is exploited and embellished to present whatever narrative that feeds the algorithm and the depraved imaginations of all witnessing this train wreck in the safety of their homes, behind these immortal glass screens which seem to contain multitudinous possibilities yet keep on depriving humans of what they once maddeningly yearned for.
Commodification of Emotion
If only the twenty-first-century teenager didn’t need pity comments to feel seen in their grief. If only the shock value of achievement meant more than that of duplicity. It’s not the creator but the consumer who is the apparition of Victor Frankenstein. It’s the eye — that transfixed thing residing in wait for caricature — which is the root of this branchless tree.
You tune into the news and are beset with horror at the number of cases, including crimes one fears to think about — being weaponised as publicity stunts. There comes a moment where truth gets lost in this sea of lies. Cynicism is all you’re left with because how is one to know that this kidnapping attempt wasn’t just for a vlog on YouTube? or how this robbery wasn’t orchestrated for a 30 second TikTok?
Humans have this inherent need to be entertained. Or do they? Roman emperors believed “bread and circuses” were enough of a stimulative force to distract the nation — allowing the elite to get away with anything and everything. As we scroll away our days, I’m left wondering whether this was an elaborate hoax for us to stop tracing the patterns and see beneath the surface, analyse the diplomatic body language and stay staring at a glass rectangle in our beds which offers an illusory ephemeral comfort.
