Most of my creative pursuits have paid me in dust, never in anything so vulgar as money.  But for the longest time, I hoped that they’d bring more than just quiet satisfaction, that maybe the world would find value in the things I shaped. I was naive.

I hadn’t yet realized that the age of intellect had come and gone, replaced by a market for bloated resumes  and acronyms that pile up like debris  after a storm of pointless achievement.  Credentials still matter, but only the kind wearing outrageous price tags not worthy of the knowledge they claim to represent. Do you want meaningful work? Too bad. You want to get paid for thinking?  Not unless you’ve got a few letters trailing your name and a degree that cost you more in future earnings than you’ll ever actually earn.

Yet here I was, laboring under the illusion that ideas still could serve as currency, that creativity could carve a space in a world that no longer prizes thought. Nope, all that’s prized now is the kind of titles that puff up your chest, but weigh down your soul. Or a really big following on Instagram, TikTok, or YouTube. Apparently, nothing else matters.

~ Amelia Desertsong, February 19, 2025