In Praise of the Useless: The Last Rebellion Against the Kingdom of the Quantifiable
We dig, we dig deep into the conformist muck of this century, desperately searching for a nugget, not of gold, but of something more precious: the authentic. That which has escaped the great grinding machine of uniform thought, the dictatorship of the 'like', the tyranny of the "happy" that must necessarily be "content". It is a heresy today, prosecutable under the code of digital good conduct, to love that which serves no purpose, except its own. It is an act of pure subversion, the last cry of freedom in a world that measures your value in clicks, in followers, in units of product sold.
One should love, yes, with the fierce tenacity of a castaway for the last drop of fresh water, everything that escapes. That which withdraws, that slips away from the clutches of the market and its ruthless logic. That odd object, that wacky idea, that uncomfortable feeling that has no price because, simply, it has no market price. It is not for sale. It is a crime of lèse-majesté against the economy. It is the old, battered book that no one will ever read again, it is the off-key song that will never make a playlist, it is the gratuitous gesture made solely for the perverse pleasure of gaining nothing in return. It is the last bastion of the human against the algorithm.
One should love, almost to the point of madness, everything that is more in order to be less. A sublime paradox! In an era that screams "optimize!", "streamline!", "maximize!", behold the scandalous beauty of disproportionate things. Of love that requires ten times the energy it returns. Of obsessive research that consumes a lifetime to produce a single line of truth. Of the work of art born from immense torment to be viewed by few, for a few moments. It is the investment at a loss, the sacrifice without reward, the push against every calculation of convenience. It is the glorious defeat of those who prefer, to winning mediocrity, the grandeur of a magnificent failure.
And one should, finally, love with an almost religious feeling everything that is alone in order not to be. This is the highest point of metaphysical revolt. The being that refuses to blend in, to contaminate itself, to become "part of". That chooses integral solitude so as not to become a commodity, so as not to be assimilated into the background noise of the herd. It is the thought that does not ask to be shared, the emotion that does not seek consensus, the beauty that does not knock on the door of others' judgment. It exists because it exists, period. It is an act of pure, aristocratic disdain for the logic of utility. It is the most radical negation of a world that wants everything and everyone interconnected, tracked, monetized.
To love the useless, the inefficient, the solitary: this is the last, desperate, magnificent vote of no confidence against the spirit of the age. It is the only form of resistance left for those who do not kneel at the altar of profit and approval. It is the only way to remain, deep down, a little human. Before the last nugget is found, cataloged, packaged, and put up for auction.
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🦅 Cheyenne Isa ₿ 🦅





