Back in 2021, people were freaking out about what would happen if finance ended up colonizing everything. The fear was loud, dramatic. A world where relationships, self-expression, even your desires could be packaged and priced. Sounds like dystopia knocking on the door. But as the essay The Train Already Left points out, that “future” is not in the future at all. It’s already here. Social media has turned followers into assets, attention into profit, and every post into a disguised ad. These platforms basically train us to live like financial instruments, where every move is an investment and every interaction a transaction.

But here’s the problem. That story, sharp as it is, gets stuck in the same boring corporate-capitalist lens. It assumes the market has swallowed literally everything, leaving us with two options: bow down or disappear. That’s way too clean of a narrative. Don’t forget the basic right every human has: to stand on their own manifesto. Even in the noisy chaos of the digital marketplace, we’re not just passive pawns. We’re agents who can navigate the current with intentions and values that don’t always line up with Wall Street logic. Sure, commodification seeps everywhere, but meaning doesn’t just vanish. It shifts, adapts, and survives in the hands of people who refuse to let it be reduced to dollar signs.

Take Bitcoin. On paper, it’s the perfect poster child for “finance eating the world.” You buy it for potential returns, portfolio diversification, maybe as a hedge against inflation. Dollars, charts, algorithms, all that. But zoom in. Some people don’t buy Bitcoin for the gains at all. They buy it as a middle finger to governments and the old financial system. Others treat it as a manifesto of freedom, a tool against central banks and state surveillance. Then there are the fanatics, who basically worship Satoshi as a symbol of decentralization and free information. Same asset, totally different angles: capitalist, rebel, philosophical, even spiritual. Participation doesn’t have to mean surrender. It’s a conscious choice, mixing money with whatever values you’re bringing to the table.

The point goes further than opt-in or opt-out. Yeah, identity can be a strategy, but that strategy doesn’t have to bow to engagement metrics. When values reorganize, it doesn’t mean everything becomes another line on an economic ledger. A personal manifesto lets us reclaim meaning. Intimacy can still be real, even if it’s shared online, as long as it’s genuine and not some engagement-farming hustle. Friendship can survive the liquidity flood, if it’s built on mutual trust and not just likes. And trust itself, the supposed victim of all this, can actually be a shield if people choose to live outside corporate logic. Maybe through decentralized communities, indie art, or offline relationships that stay out of monetization entirely.

So here we are. The question isn’t whether everything has a price tag anymore. The question is how we defend what can’t be priced, by living out our own manifestos. Finance might have eaten chunks of the world, but it hasn’t eaten the human spirit. Meaning is not a dead commodity. It’s a fire, and you can always light it again, as long as you walk your own path. Yeah, the train already left, but that doesn’t mean you can’t catch up. Or better yet, build your own tracks and see who follows.

Back in 2021, people were freaking out about what would happen if finance ended up colonizing everything. The fear was loud, dramatic. A world where relationships, self-expression, even your desires could be packaged and priced. Sounds like dystopia knocking on the door. But as the essay The Train Already Left points out, that “future” is not in the future at all. It’s already here. Social media has turned followers into assets, attention into profit, and every post into a disguised ad. These platforms basically train us to live like financial instruments, where every move is an investment and every interaction a transaction.

But here’s the problem. That story, sharp as it is, gets stuck in the same boring corporate-capitalist lens. It assumes the market has swallowed literally everything, leaving us with two options: bow down or disappear. That’s way too clean of a narrative. Don’t forget the basic right every human has: to stand on their own manifesto. Even in the noisy chaos of the digital marketplace, we’re not just passive pawns. We’re agents who can navigate the current with intentions and values that don’t always line up with Wall Street logic. Sure, commodification seeps everywhere, but meaning doesn’t just vanish. It shifts, adapts, and survives in the hands of people who refuse to let it be reduced to dollar signs.

Take Bitcoin. On paper, it’s the perfect poster child for “finance eating the world.” You buy it for potential returns, portfolio diversification, maybe as a hedge against inflation. Dollars, charts, algorithms, all that. But zoom in. Some people don’t buy Bitcoin for the gains at all. They buy it as a middle finger to governments and the old financial system. Others treat it as a manifesto of freedom, a tool against central banks and state surveillance. Then there are the fanatics, who basically worship Satoshi as a symbol of decentralization and free information. Same asset, totally different angles: capitalist, rebel, philosophical, even spiritual. Participation doesn’t have to mean surrender. It’s a conscious choice, mixing money with whatever values you’re bringing to the table.

The point goes further than opt-in or opt-out. Yeah, identity can be a strategy, but that strategy doesn’t have to bow to engagement metrics. When values reorganize, it doesn’t mean everything becomes another line on an economic ledger. A personal manifesto lets us reclaim meaning. Intimacy can still be real, even if it’s shared online, as long as it’s genuine and not some engagement-farming hustle. Friendship can survive the liquidity flood, if it’s built on mutual trust and not just likes. And trust itself, the supposed victim of all this, can actually be a shield if people choose to live outside corporate logic. Maybe through decentralized communities, indie art, or offline relationships that stay out of monetization entirely.

So here we are. The question isn’t whether everything has a price tag anymore. The question is how we defend what can’t be priced, by living out our own manifestos. Finance might have eaten chunks of the world, but it hasn’t eaten the human spirit. Meaning is not a dead commodity. It’s a fire, and you can always light it again, as long as you walk your own path. Yeah, the train already left, but that doesn’t mean you can’t catch up. Or better yet, build your own tracks and see who follows.