I am held hostage by my desires. I am told what I "need" and when I need it by so that it doesn't dribble between my fingers like water. My sense of failure at attaining my "needs" weighs heavy on my shoulders as I know that I'll be the only one without it; my status has dropped that much more.
I see my peers peddling these "needs" as ferociously as if they were pedalling a bicycle - an unrelenting uphill battle where at any moment you can be surpassed by someone more convincing, more influential, more #relatable. At times, I measure my pleasure in these "needs" and find fulfilment in seeing myself reflected in my favourite celebrities. But that pleasure doesn't last for long and soon I am back to coveting something new and more expensive.
This is embarrassing to admit because I don't want to be this way, but, realistically, we've been born for this - to consume. In one way and out the other. We regurgitate a lifestyle that's been force fed to us, like a soft drink made sickly sweet to mask the ill-effects on its way in.
Most of the time, my "needs" consume me. My head is filled with bubblegum colours and flashing lights implemented to catch and keep my attention. Happiness is in those colours and lights - in those smiles on the screen, ecstatic about how this "need" applies, wears, looks, smells. This is how it sells, and we are the door-to-door (or screen-to-screen) peddlers dressed in scratchy polyester suits with eager smiles. We are just as much the sellers as we are the products, but that's a hard pill to swallow. Influencers is a nicer, more uplifting word.