There is a warehouse somewhere that a lot of people have visited. I myself did. Maybe even you. It’s the one that doesn’t exist physically, but once you open your phone, it’s there.

This warehouse is made of 15-second thoughts, of carousel wisdom, and of threads that read like assembly lines. Everything is formatted, optimized, and ready to be shipped. There are no tags or seams seen. Everything is just output. In other words, this warehouse is also known as content.

And lately, the more I am scrolling through a feed, the more I am feeling like walking through a Shein haul where everything is technically a garment, but nothing is actually made for the body. And with each passing day, I truly feel like I was.

And it all started with people’s desires to be content creators, and was made possible by AI who made the factory floor accessible to literally everyone.

Content has become fast fashion.

A few years ago, becoming a creator meant sitting with an idea long enough for it to become yours. It meant learning a craft (whether it was writing, filming, editing, designing, or whatever you may love) because the process itself was the thing. The gap between wanting to say something and being able to say it well was where identity formed. The gap was the apprenticeship nobody talked about.

But then, with the emergence of ChatGPT in late 2022, the gap started to close. I would even say that the barrier was completely removed. Suddenly, anyone could produce a carousel in four minutes or generate a script, a caption, a thread, or any other piece of content before finishing their morning coffee.

And while these tools were becoming better and better, people’s desires to become creators (some because they truly loved it, others because they just wanted to live the lives they assumed the creators they love do, while others for other reasons) deepened as well. The assumption that because you can produce, you should, or the one that output is identity.

Many think that if the machine can write it, then they can post it, and they are a creator. I am sure you know the feeling, as you’ve seen the feeds. The same carousel structure, the same hook formula, and the same “you’re not, you are just” opening line repurposed across thousands of accounts.

This, to me, feels exactly like the Shein model but applied to thought.

Based on my knowledge (if you have more, please correct me), fast fashion works like this:

Take a design that resonated somewhere, replicate it cheaply, strip it of its original context, and flood the market until the original is indistinguishable from the copy. Nobody remembers who made it first, and nobody cares because the point is the volume. Rarely, if ever, is the point of these brands the garment.

Content now, in my eyes, follows the same logic (especially with the constant change in algorithms and the idea that the more you post, the higher the chances are of getting seen).

Take an insight that someone earned through lived experience (or even yours), run it through a prompt, reformat it into the right structure, and post it from an account with a blue check and a Canva aesthetic. Many repeat this daily, as the algorithm doesn’t know the difference, and for a while, neither does the audience.

Before moving on, I need to be honest about something.

I am not a successful creator. I don’t have a large following, sponsorship deals, or a monetized newsletter with 50k subscribers. I am writing this from a small corner of the internet that most people may never find (or some day they will), and I am okay with that. I say this because the perspective I am about to share comes from someone who is inside the attempt.

What I’ve noticed, from where I stand, is that the fast fashion model of content, contrary to what many may think, affects who and what you become while making it.

In my eyes, when you enter the creator economy under the current logic, you are converting your life into material. I am seeing this in my sister as well.

Her morning routine is turning into a reel. Her confusion becomes a carousel or video with a specific title (that title that many are praising). Everything that happens to her, and many others, passes through the “is this content worth?” filter.

If you’ve ever caught yourself framing a genuine emotion in terms of how it would perform (this could actually be a good hook lol), you know what I mean. The current state of the content economy turns people into feeds.

Think about what Shein did to clothing, and let’s forget about the garments for a second, for the impact is way more profound than that. Fast fashion changed the relationship between a person and what they wear.

Clothes stopped being something you chose and became something you consumed. The garment’s only job was to exist long enough to be photographed.

Content does this to thought.

When the algorithm dictates the rhythm instead of curiosity, the ideas become disposable. The algorithm makes us stop asking what we actually think, and makes us start asking what will perform. The distinction between the two is huge.

Deadstock is a term from the fashion world, used to describe brand-new items that were produced but never worn or sold. I first heard it over a decade ago, when I became interested in sneakers, never imagining I’d one day use it in this context.

But lately, the word feels really appropriate. Scroll through any feed long enough, and you’ll find posts that exist mostly because the schedule said it was time to say something.

Underpaid labor, toxic waste, or landfills overflowing with polyester that will outlast the civilization that produced it are things that make fast fashion one of the most exploitative industries on earth. But I assume we all know this.

I am not going to make a 1:1 comparison between a garment factory and someone grinding out Twitter posts, as I don’t think the material itself is comparable. The only thing that makes me think about one another is the logic.

The current content economy has its own form of exploitation. It exploits our attention as much as everyone else’s and also the creator’s time, mental health, and, worst, sense of self.

It creates a system where you must produce constantly to remain visible, where “touching grass” is algorithmic death, and where the platform profits from your output and you receive, in return, the anxiety of metrics.

And like fast fashion, the waste is enormous.

How much content exists right now that nobody will ever see again that was made solely to fill? How many people burned out making things that were designed to be forgotten?

The waste of human attention, both of the viewer and maker, is the part that bothers me the most. Both spend time on something that is so easily forgotten.

There’s a moment in every fast fashion haul video (you most probably have watched one) where the person holds up a piece and says it’s cute for the price. That’s the qualifier. THE PRICE!!!

It acknowledges, almost unconsciously, that the thing is not actually good but just adequate relative to what it costs. And the same qualifier is applied to most of the content today. It’s good for how fast they made it.

I don’t have a solution for everything that I’ve discussed, and I believe none has. But I have something I believe.

If you want to be a creator (a real one, whatever that means to you), the single most radical thing you can do right now is to slow down because the thing that will make your work yours is the texture of your actual experience, which emerges when you give it time.

It can still be AI generated if you work with AI in any form, but the intent behind it and the ways you are using it make it “land” totally different.

The slow fashion movement succeeded because it offered a relationship with what you wear. It was a garment made by someone, for someone with intention. Even though you pay more and own less, in this context, less is more because it means something.

The same principle applies to what you make and what you consume online. Write when you have something to say. Publish the thing when it’s ready, and when it feels like you, not like something that others or the algorithm would want to see.

I know this is hard advice to hear if you’re trying to grow. It’s hard for me to hear as well, as I want to grow too. But more than growth, I value myself more and the people I have around.

I also hold the belief that authenticity and slowness will lead me towards building a community rather than an audience (I may share my perspective on this more in-depth in another essay, but in a few words, the main difference is that a community follows you, while an audience follows your content.)

I also know that every growth guru will tell us that the best time to post was yesterday and 100 times/day at that perfect time. I’ve heard it, and I’ve tried it. I’ve done those things, and the reason I stopped doing it is that I felt losing the connection with myself and the ones around me. I felt the lack of depth in my engagements. It wasn’t who I actually am.

I am still figuring this out, but what I can tell you is that the work I am most proud of, and the one celebrated by most people, is the one I gave time to. And by time, I am not referring to posting once per month, as it’s not about the frequency at all.

What I am referring to is posting or creating when you feel like doing it. I have periods in which I am writing 6 essays a week, because I have the pull to write, and other weeks in which I barely write anything. I stopped forcing myself just because I have to.

There’s a small Japanese concept called shokunin kishitsu. It roughly translates to the craftsman’s spirit, and it means dedicating yourself to your work with an almost spiritual commitment to getting it right for nothing or no one else but the work itself.

And the fast fashion content model produces the exact opposite of this concept: work made for no one, by no one, about nothing, and optimized for a machine.

If you want to create, create. I actually encourage you to do so because creativity is the only legacy we leave behind. But make it yours. Let it cost you something (and I am not talking about money).

The audience for fast content will always be large and always be distracted. But the one for the “slow content” is smaller (for now, because I think the movement discussed in this essay, together with other elements, will make more people chase this), and they will always remember what you made.

Say something that needed saying, in the only voice that could say it. Yours.

(Also, I recommend you read this article by Charli Cohen on the way AI is making us think, as in my opinion, a consequence of what she’s addressing is also the way we create.)

Thank you!🌹

Eduard 🌹

There is a warehouse somewhere that a lot of people have visited. I myself did. Maybe even you. It’s the one that doesn’t exist physically, but once you open your phone, it’s there.

This warehouse is made of 15-second thoughts, of carousel wisdom, and of threads that read like assembly lines. Everything is formatted, optimized, and ready to be shipped. There are no tags or seams seen. Everything is just output. In other words, this warehouse is also known as content.

And lately, the more I am scrolling through a feed, the more I am feeling like walking through a Shein haul where everything is technically a garment, but nothing is actually made for the body. And with each passing day, I truly feel like I was.

And it all started with people’s desires to be content creators, and was made possible by AI who made the factory floor accessible to literally everyone.

Content has become fast fashion.

A few years ago, becoming a creator meant sitting with an idea long enough for it to become yours. It meant learning a craft (whether it was writing, filming, editing, designing, or whatever you may love) because the process itself was the thing. The gap between wanting to say something and being able to say it well was where identity formed. The gap was the apprenticeship nobody talked about.

But then, with the emergence of ChatGPT in late 2022, the gap started to close. I would even say that the barrier was completely removed. Suddenly, anyone could produce a carousel in four minutes or generate a script, a caption, a thread, or any other piece of content before finishing their morning coffee.

And while these tools were becoming better and better, people’s desires to become creators (some because they truly loved it, others because they just wanted to live the lives they assumed the creators they love do, while others for other reasons) deepened as well. The assumption that because you can produce, you should, or the one that output is identity.

Many think that if the machine can write it, then they can post it, and they are a creator. I am sure you know the feeling, as you’ve seen the feeds. The same carousel structure, the same hook formula, and the same “you’re not, you are just” opening line repurposed across thousands of accounts.

This, to me, feels exactly like the Shein model but applied to thought.

Based on my knowledge (if you have more, please correct me), fast fashion works like this:

Take a design that resonated somewhere, replicate it cheaply, strip it of its original context, and flood the market until the original is indistinguishable from the copy. Nobody remembers who made it first, and nobody cares because the point is the volume. Rarely, if ever, is the point of these brands the garment.

Content now, in my eyes, follows the same logic (especially with the constant change in algorithms and the idea that the more you post, the higher the chances are of getting seen).

Take an insight that someone earned through lived experience (or even yours), run it through a prompt, reformat it into the right structure, and post it from an account with a blue check and a Canva aesthetic. Many repeat this daily, as the algorithm doesn’t know the difference, and for a while, neither does the audience.

Before moving on, I need to be honest about something.

I am not a successful creator. I don’t have a large following, sponsorship deals, or a monetized newsletter with 50k subscribers. I am writing this from a small corner of the internet that most people may never find (or some day they will), and I am okay with that. I say this because the perspective I am about to share comes from someone who is inside the attempt.

What I’ve noticed, from where I stand, is that the fast fashion model of content, contrary to what many may think, affects who and what you become while making it.

In my eyes, when you enter the creator economy under the current logic, you are converting your life into material. I am seeing this in my sister as well.

Her morning routine is turning into a reel. Her confusion becomes a carousel or video with a specific title (that title that many are praising). Everything that happens to her, and many others, passes through the “is this content worth?” filter.

If you’ve ever caught yourself framing a genuine emotion in terms of how it would perform (this could actually be a good hook lol), you know what I mean. The current state of the content economy turns people into feeds.

Think about what Shein did to clothing, and let’s forget about the garments for a second, for the impact is way more profound than that. Fast fashion changed the relationship between a person and what they wear.

Clothes stopped being something you chose and became something you consumed. The garment’s only job was to exist long enough to be photographed.

Content does this to thought.

When the algorithm dictates the rhythm instead of curiosity, the ideas become disposable. The algorithm makes us stop asking what we actually think, and makes us start asking what will perform. The distinction between the two is huge.

Deadstock is a term from the fashion world, used to describe brand-new items that were produced but never worn or sold. I first heard it over a decade ago, when I became interested in sneakers, never imagining I’d one day use it in this context.

But lately, the word feels really appropriate. Scroll through any feed long enough, and you’ll find posts that exist mostly because the schedule said it was time to say something.

Underpaid labor, toxic waste, or landfills overflowing with polyester that will outlast the civilization that produced it are things that make fast fashion one of the most exploitative industries on earth. But I assume we all know this.

I am not going to make a 1:1 comparison between a garment factory and someone grinding out Twitter posts, as I don’t think the material itself is comparable. The only thing that makes me think about one another is the logic.

The current content economy has its own form of exploitation. It exploits our attention as much as everyone else’s and also the creator’s time, mental health, and, worst, sense of self.

It creates a system where you must produce constantly to remain visible, where “touching grass” is algorithmic death, and where the platform profits from your output and you receive, in return, the anxiety of metrics.

And like fast fashion, the waste is enormous.

How much content exists right now that nobody will ever see again that was made solely to fill? How many people burned out making things that were designed to be forgotten?

The waste of human attention, both of the viewer and maker, is the part that bothers me the most. Both spend time on something that is so easily forgotten.

There’s a moment in every fast fashion haul video (you most probably have watched one) where the person holds up a piece and says it’s cute for the price. That’s the qualifier. THE PRICE!!!

It acknowledges, almost unconsciously, that the thing is not actually good but just adequate relative to what it costs. And the same qualifier is applied to most of the content today. It’s good for how fast they made it.

I don’t have a solution for everything that I’ve discussed, and I believe none has. But I have something I believe.

If you want to be a creator (a real one, whatever that means to you), the single most radical thing you can do right now is to slow down because the thing that will make your work yours is the texture of your actual experience, which emerges when you give it time.

It can still be AI generated if you work with AI in any form, but the intent behind it and the ways you are using it make it “land” totally different.

The slow fashion movement succeeded because it offered a relationship with what you wear. It was a garment made by someone, for someone with intention. Even though you pay more and own less, in this context, less is more because it means something.

The same principle applies to what you make and what you consume online. Write when you have something to say. Publish the thing when it’s ready, and when it feels like you, not like something that others or the algorithm would want to see.

I know this is hard advice to hear if you’re trying to grow. It’s hard for me to hear as well, as I want to grow too. But more than growth, I value myself more and the people I have around.

I also hold the belief that authenticity and slowness will lead me towards building a community rather than an audience (I may share my perspective on this more in-depth in another essay, but in a few words, the main difference is that a community follows you, while an audience follows your content.)

I also know that every growth guru will tell us that the best time to post was yesterday and 100 times/day at that perfect time. I’ve heard it, and I’ve tried it. I’ve done those things, and the reason I stopped doing it is that I felt losing the connection with myself and the ones around me. I felt the lack of depth in my engagements. It wasn’t who I actually am.

I am still figuring this out, but what I can tell you is that the work I am most proud of, and the one celebrated by most people, is the one I gave time to. And by time, I am not referring to posting once per month, as it’s not about the frequency at all.

What I am referring to is posting or creating when you feel like doing it. I have periods in which I am writing 6 essays a week, because I have the pull to write, and other weeks in which I barely write anything. I stopped forcing myself just because I have to.

There’s a small Japanese concept called shokunin kishitsu. It roughly translates to the craftsman’s spirit, and it means dedicating yourself to your work with an almost spiritual commitment to getting it right for nothing or no one else but the work itself.

And the fast fashion content model produces the exact opposite of this concept: work made for no one, by no one, about nothing, and optimized for a machine.

If you want to create, create. I actually encourage you to do so because creativity is the only legacy we leave behind. But make it yours. Let it cost you something (and I am not talking about money).

The audience for fast content will always be large and always be distracted. But the one for the “slow content” is smaller (for now, because I think the movement discussed in this essay, together with other elements, will make more people chase this), and they will always remember what you made.

Say something that needed saying, in the only voice that could say it. Yours.

(Also, I recommend you read this article by Charli Cohen on the way AI is making us think, as in my opinion, a consequence of what she’s addressing is also the way we create.)

Thank you!🌹

Eduard 🌹