Creativity Has Become a Ghost: Why Society Worships Wealth Over Passion

Once, creativity was king. It wasn’t always a ghost. It walked among us, raw and unkempt, with ink-stained fingers, carving meaning out of the chaos.

But now, it’s a ghost haunting boardrooms where no one believes in it anymore.

Most people I meet don’t even talk about creativity. It’s all about the grind, the hustle, the “secured bag.”

They want to tell you about their promotion or the stock options they cashed in.

When was the last time someone told you about a poem they wrote or a dream they chased until it left them breathless? That’s right.

They don’t. Because we killed that part of ourselves a long time ago.

The Golden Calf of Wealth

Let’s not kid ourselves—society’s in love with wealth, and who can blame it?

Wealth is the glittering star in the corner of the room, and we’re all too busy bowing down to notice it.

It’s like a shiny car you can’t afford, or a bottle of wine that costs more than your rent. Wealth buys things. Wealth buys a yacht that sits in the marina, looking smug while the rest of us battle over parking spots.

Wealth lets you stroll onto an airplane and flip off the peasants crammed into the back with their soggy peanuts and stale air.

You get to sit in first class with your overpriced glass of champagne and a smug little smile because, damn it, you earned it. Or, you think you did.

Now, creativity? Ha! That’s the underdog, the scrappy kid with dirt on its face and a paintbrush in its hand. It’s the thing that asks you to sit in your room all day with nothing but your ideas and an empty fridge.

It’s the dream that doesn’t pay your rent but sure as hell will fill your soul with something that’ll make you stare at the ceiling at 3 a.m. and wonder why you’re not doing more of it.

But here’s the thing—creativity doesn’t buy you a damn thing.

It doesn’t pay for your therapist’s yacht or your overpriced avocado toast.

It just asks you to dive into the chaos of your own mind and, if you’re lucky, you come out with something that might matter.

If you’re not lucky, you’re just stuck with a bunch of empty notebooks and a really intense staring contest with your ceiling fan.

What Society ExpectsWhat Creativity Demands
Climb the ladder—no matter how many bodies you have to step over.Throw that ladder out the window and jump off the building.
Follow the rulesScrew that. Break every damn rule you can find.
Prove your worthForget what “worth” even means. What the hell is worth, anyway? Is it a paycheck or a feeling?

Here’s the thing about being creative: you’re stepping outside the damn line.

You’re walking on the grass. And that terrifies the hell out of people.

They’re so busy clutching their paychecks and updating their LinkedIn profiles with buzzwords like “synergy” and “proactive,” they’ve forgotten how to even breathe without a spreadsheet.

They’re stuck in a hamster wheel, chasing a carrot they’ll never taste, and you, the crazy artist or poet or musician, are the one sitting outside the cage, laughing.

You’re the one who can still feel the warmth of the sun on your skin because you’re not afraid to step off the treadmill of meaningless achievement.

Talking to a Kid About It

If I had to explain this to a kid, I’d say:

“Imagine you have a box of crayons. You love drawing with them, right? But one day, someone comes and says, ‘You don’t need these crayons. You need a calculator. That’s what will make you important.’ So, you throw away your crayons, and guess what?

The world becomes gray.

“The thing is, those crayons—that’s your creativity. And if you let it die, you end up living in a gray world where everything feels the same, day after day. Don’t let anyone take your crayons, kid.

They’re more important than they’ll ever admit.”

How Creativity Got Sold for Parts

Creativity didn’t just fade away like a forgotten dream or a bar tab left unpaid. Nah, it got chopped up, auctioned off, and sold for scrap like some beat-up old car that nobody bothered to fix.

They took the engine and shoved it into Silicon Valley, where it’s cranking out algorithms designed to make you buy crap you didn’t know you needed, like a toaster that syncs with your phone or a fridge that judges you for eating too much cheese.

It’s all about squeezing a few more bucks out of your soul, baby.

Then they took the wheels, polished them up, and gave them to Hollywood. Those wheels are now spinning so fast they’re too dizzy to care about anything new.

Hollywood’s churning out sequels, prequels, reboots, and spin-offs, like a hamster on a wheel, hoping nobody notices that the same old tired plotlines are being recycled like last week’s leftovers.

The rest of creativity? The parts nobody could sell? They just left it to rust. Forgotten in some damp warehouse, next to expired ideas and dusty VHS tapes, waiting for someone to give a damn.

And the so-called “creative industries”?

Well, they’ve figured out that passion doesn’t pay the bills—profit does.

Creativity used to be about passion, soul, expression. Now it’s about crunching numbers. You know it’s true. You feel it every time you see some indie artist selling their soul. You want to puke, but hey, the bill’s gotta be paid.

Take video games, for instance. It’s a $100 billion industry, sure. But how much of that is actual innovation, and how much is just another way to keep us glued to a screen while they drip-feed us microtransactions and “new” skins for our avatars?

You think you’re leveling up in life? Nah, you’re just leveling up in the quest to empty your wallet.

Art That’s AliveArt That’s Dead
Created for its own sakeCreated to sell a product
Asks questionsGives answers no one asked for
Challenges the viewerComforts the viewer

It’s all a game now. No one’s asking for the truth; they just want the comfort of a nice, soft lie wrapped in a shiny package.

Creativity’s been gentrified, rebranded, and shoved into the corner like an old recliner at a garage sale. It’s there, but nobody cares unless they can make a buck off it.

Why Passion is Dangerous

Here’s the cold, hard truth about creativity—it’s dangerous. You think you’re just doodling in a notebook or strumming a guitar because it feels good?

Nah, man.

Creativity isn’t just a nice little hobby, it’s a full-on revolt against everything that keeps this world churning.

It makes people question things. It makes them look up from their little cubicles and wonder, Is this it? Is this all there is? It makes them want more than the same 9-to-5 grind, the same boring meetings, the same paycheck-to-paycheck existence.

And the system? Well, it can’t have that. It’s terrified of that.

Think of Winston Smith from 1984. That poor bastard starts writing in a forbidden diary, a little act of personal defiance, and what happens?

He gets crushed like a cockroach under a steel boot. Why? Because even creating something for yourself—something the world didn’t ask for—is a direct punch to the gut of the whole damn system.

You’re not just scribbling some nonsense on a page; you’re reclaiming your right to think. To feel. To exist beyond what the hell they want you to be.

You ever wonder why society loves to tell you to follow the rules, stick to the script, and keep your head down?

It’s because it’s easier to control you when you’re just another cog in the machine. They don’t want you dreaming of bigger things. They want you to wake up, pour some coffee into your soul, and just go through the motions.

Be a good little worker, a good little consumer, and, most importantly, a good little obedient robot.

But creativity? That’s a Molotov cocktail in the middle of the dance floor. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t conform. It makes people uncomfortable, like a fart in a silent room.

It messes with the rhythm. It makes you ask questions, like: Why am I here? Why am I doing this? And the system? It doesn’t want those questions. It wants you to shut up, sit down, and punch the clock.

Creativity makes you stand up, shout, and throw the clock out the damn window. It’s not a nice little addition to the routine—it’s a revolution in disguise.

So go ahead, keep being creative. But don’t be surprised when the system starts to look at you like you’re the bad guy.

You are. And you should be. The system’s been running on autopilot for too long, and creativity’s the wrench that’s going to mess it all up.

What the Rebels Have to Say

Not everyone gives in, though. There are the few, the stubborn, the fools who keep fighting for the ghost of creativity, for that damn thing that won’t stay still, that refuses to be boxed up and sold for cheap.

There are those who still believe it’s worth something—maybe not in money, but in life, in meaning, in that tiny flicker of rebellion that sparks when you create something for the sheer hell of it.

But let’s not sugarcoat it: these rebels rarely win.

They’re like moths flying headfirst into the flame, and when they’re burned, no one remembers their name except the people who’ll sell their work a hundred years later for millions.

And that’s not justice, that’s just a joke. It’s the kind of joke where the punchline is you dying alone in some dirty room while the rest of the world moves on to the next distraction.

The system doesn’t give a damn about your art. It doesn’t care that you’re pouring your soul onto a canvas or that your words could have changed the world—what it cares about is money, control, keeping people in line.

Take Vincent van Gogh, for example. The guy painted his heart out, bled emotion onto every canvas, created some of the most iconic works that would later be worth millions—and what did he get for it? Nothing.

He died penniless, with his ear in a jar and no one to understand the genius inside his broken mind. He didn’t get to sit at some fancy gala and toast to his success. He didn’t get to rub elbows with the wealthy art collectors who would later parade his work around their mansions.

He died thinking he was a failure. That’s what the system does. It chews you up and spits you out, and if you’re lucky, they might talk about you after you’re gone. Maybe.

And then there’s James Joyce. Yeah, the guy who wrote Ulysses, one of the most influential novels of the 20th century. What did he get?

He didn’t get to sit at the head of some prestigious university teaching about literature. He didn’t get a warm, cushy job with a pension and a nice home.

Joyce was basically broke most of his life, dealing with a world that had no idea how to handle his stream-of-consciousness madness.

He fought for his creativity in the trenches, pushing every boundary, and what did the system do?

It told him he was insane, that his work was worthless. But he didn’t stop. He kept writing, kept fighting, and when he finally got published, the critics ripped him to shreds.

Ulysses was banned in multiple countries, called obscene. It wasn’t until much later that people realized what they had, but by then, Joyce was a man who had to keep running, never able to rest, never able to relax. His creativity didn’t set him free—it nearly killed him.

And then there’s Franz Kafka. The guy wrote some of the darkest, most profound literature ever created—The Trial, The Metamorphosis—and what did he get?

He lived his life like a man on the run, working a day job, hating it, suffering from isolation and illness. He couldn’t even finish his works. He was terrified of being misunderstood, of being lost in the noise.

And what did the world do? They ignored him. Kafka asked for his manuscripts to be burned, but thank God his friend Max Brod ignored him and published them anyway, or we wouldn’t even know his name. Kafka didn’t get to enjoy the fame he deserved. He died in obscurity, like a lot of these rebels, like a lot of us will.

But here’s the thing—they all knew the risk.

They knew that creativity was a gamble. It’s like rolling the dice with your whole life, and most of the time, you end up losing.

You can’t have it both ways—being creative and living comfortably in the system. The system will never let you do that. You can’t sit at the table with the wealthy, sip on cocktails, and still demand the freedom to create without consequences.

You can’t paint a masterpiece and expect the world to stop everything and admire you. No, it’ll chew you up and spit you out, and if you’re lucky, they might recognize you posthumously.

These rebels knew that they were playing a dangerous game, and most of them lost. But what the system doesn’t want you to know is that the game was always rigged in the first place.

If you’re creating with your heart, if you’re truly pouring yourself into it, you’re already stepping outside the lines. You’re already telling the world, I don’t give a damn about your rules.

And the system doesn’t like that. It’ll either buy you, twist you, or kill you off. Either way, you’re never really going to win in the way they want you to.

But that’s the price of being a rebel. That’s the price of having a soul. Creativity is a flame that doesn’t care if it burns you.

The Science of the Soul

Alright, here’s where it gets all clinical on you, and let me tell you, it’s as ugly as it is fascinating. Creativity, that thing you love and hate all at once, doesn’t just float around in some whimsical ether—it’s tucked away in the brain’s default mode network (DMN).

Now, I know that sounds like something you’d hear at a tech conference or from a guy with a PhD in not having fun, but bear with me.

The DMN is like your brain’s little hideaway for daydreams and wandering thoughts. It’s that part of your brain that lights up when you’re zoning out, staring at the clouds, or thinking about that weird dream where you were chased by a giant chicken.

But here’s the problem: when you’re nose-deep in the grind—chasing that paycheck, stressing over bills, worrying about whether your boss likes your tie or if your dog ate your last pair of clean socks—your DMN?

Yeah, it shuts down. It’s like hitting the “off” switch on the creative machine, and suddenly, you’re just a hamster running on a wheel, with zero interest in creating anything beyond your next meal.

You’re too busy trying not to drown in your own pile of crap to care about painting a masterpiece or writing the next great novel.

Studies have shown that when you’re under constant stress—whether it’s financial strain, social anxiety, or that gnawing feeling that you’re stuck in a job that’s slowly killing you—your brain doesn’t just ignore creativity; it forgets about it.

It’s not that your creativity disappears like some sneaky gremlin that only shows up when you least expect it. No, it’s still there, somewhere in the dusty corners of your mind, like an old forgotten pet that’s now too scared to come out and play.

But your brain simply doesn’t have the bandwidth to give a damn about it.

Now, this isn’t just some theoretical crap I read in a self-help book while I was pretending to care. No, it’s biology. Science. You can’t escape it by just thinking positively or breathing deeply into your overpriced yoga mat.

Stress is a creativity killer, pure and simple. It doesn’t give a damn about your artistic dreams. And what’s worse? Wealth doesn’t kill creativity. It doesn’t throw it out of the window or lock it in the basement.

Wealth—now, that’s a different animal. It opens doors, gives you a cushion to fall back on when life’s trying to hit you with a sledgehammer, and suddenly, your brain isn’t too busy running away from life’s punches to think about the stuff that makes you human.

It lets you breathe, lets you actually think. Without that constant cloud of stress hanging over your head, you might just remember that you’re capable of more than just surviving.

You might even find the time to pull out a paintbrush and let your brain dance again.

So, the next time you’re struggling to get your creative juices flowing, don’t just blame yourself. Blame the bills, the job you hate, or the constant worry that your bank account might resemble the surface of the moon.

The DMN’s on strike, and creativity’s locked in the closet. But hell, if you could only get rid of that stress… maybe, just maybe, you’d finally hear the tap-tap-tapping of creativity knocking on the door, waiting for you to let it back out to play.

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