If a meal at a restaurant is consumed and no one posts a picture, was it eaten at all?

How much of what we do is for us and how much of it is so we can post about it on one of the myriad social sites? When we go on holiday, we rush to get the photos uploaded and show our friends how fabulous our lives are. when we go to a concert we check-in and let everyone know we are enjoying ourselves. Coffee with a friend requires shots of the cake and cappuccino and a night out, photos of the empty drinks and silly faces. And when there is nothing going on? A selfie to remind people that even though we aren't somewhere fabulous, we are not dead.

And, then we wait for the likes, the hearts, the thumbs up and stars and comments to come pouring in and if they don't, we feel empty.

Are we living life publicly or are we publicity living?

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So much of this life has been turned into a product, including ourselves. We curate our experience to show our personal goods in the best light, develop a strong reputation and drive for brand awareness. Build and engage our audience.

Life's experience has become a marketing opportunity, a chance to share who we are with the world, show what we have to the world. A new car is not limited to a status symbol on the road, it is digitised and shared to maximise exposure, a bunch of flowers from a husband appears in a news feed as a declaration of devotion and deserving.

How much is enjoyed, and how much is missed while adjusting for the perfect angle, manoeuvring for a better light, enhancing through filters of the phone, text and mind? I see people in cafes taking photos of their joint experience but barely talk while they each stare at screens. Well, other than to ask if that filter does it justice or not?

I am guilty of this too, especially when I travel. I have a camera with me always but walking along the Seine in Paris next to my wife, I should be holding her hand, not the shutter button. At least sometimes.

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But, it gets worse for some, it is not just a display of their life, it is a way of life and they begin to crave the attention, it justifies their experiences, it feeds their hunger for validation and without it, they get depressed, angry and bitter. The same when criticism swings their way.

They want to live in the open as long as those that watch do not speak out against them or disapprove of their methods or choices. They only want to be adored and when the adoration is not forthcoming, they strive harder, push for more, increase their activities, shift the lines they have marked in the sand.

How quickly their behaviors change, from the positive quotes to the complaints of bullying, the show of strength to the outpouring of tears. But, is it real or is it another part of the marketing plan. I suffer too, I am a victim too. Give me sympathy. Adore my courage to remove the facade and show my true self, no make up, tears streaming. More curation of experience, more audience engagement.

But, is it their fault or the society we build? This is an attention economy after all, we are born into a world where we must impress for a chance of success. The practical skills that were impressive in the past have been replaced by the ability to give the impression of skills. It doesn't matter if it can or can't do, it is market sentiment that drives value after all.

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The trick is to turn the attention away from the fraying threads, the chipped edges, the dust in the corners. All of the likes, the comments, the hearts and stars are of little comfort in the darkness sitting alone. Little help when real help is needed. 

The feed may be full while the soul depletes and then one day, the platform we held so dear, the one where we got all of those followers and our foundation for self-worth... *This site can't be reached.* What then, where do we go? Where do we post and get our love from strangers we will never know? All my history wiped away... 

Another platform will arrive, something new where nobody knows our names. Time to reinvent, put on another mask, a rebirth to manipulate and grab the attention of the inattentive. 

A new me, until I no longer know who is the real me.

Taraz
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