The Colosseum of Clicks: A Farce of Digital Damnation

Welcome to the digital circus, where people fight like gladiators for likes, clicks, and saves sacrificing their dignity on the altar of reach. The big shots dazzle with their polished facades, the small fry beg for scraps of attention, and those with something real to say? Ignored, banished to obscurity by the algorithm. This isn’t social media anymore, it’s a colosseum where the mob screams for drama, banality, and vulgarity. And nobody knows who’s behind the masks. Eight minutes to dissect the absurdity of our digital existence.

Up in the internet’s VIP boxes sit the influencers, ready to do anything for a single post. Anything means: leaping off cliffs for the perfect selfie, dancing in underwear while their kids wail in the background, or staging “vulnerable” sob fests orchestrated by a team of stylists and PR gurus. “I’ve found myself,” they weep into the camera, while the algorithm claps. Authenticity? A hollow buzzword, as empty as their promises.

The algorithm loves drama and banality. So, they deliver: videos of people dumping Ice water over their heads, “pranks” humiliating strangers, or challenges where folks pelt each other with food. This isn’t content, it’s a battlefield where the most shameless wear the crown.

Then there are the small-timers, dreaming of fame with their 47 followers (12 of them bots). They post sunsets and avocado toast, frantically liking and commenting on the big shots’ posts. “Be active!” the shiny gurus preach. “Like, comment, follow the big accounts, and the algorithm will reward you!” Spoiler: It doesn’t. The small fry stays invisible, their “Wow, so inspiring!” comments mere cries into the void, while the big shots shine ever brighter. The algorithm is a ruthless emperor, only raising its thumb for the victors.

And then there are those with something to say, about politics, art, the world. Their posts are honest, thoughtful, but they drown in the noise. A piece on hunger in the world? 12 likes. A video of someone dousing themselves in ketchup? Millions of views. The algorithm hates substance; it’s boring, it doesn’t drive clicks. These thinkers are the colosseum’s outcasts, their voices drowned out by bots, trolls, and cat videos. They keep fighting, but no one listens.

Finally, miracle of miracles, it happens: Your post goes viral. Hundreds, maybe thousands of likes flood in, comments explode with “Wow!” and “You’re so strong!” For a moment, it feels like triumph, the digital applause echoes through the arena. But then? Silence. The notifications fade, the feed moves on, and you’re left with a yawning void. The hearts you bought with half a nervous breakdown dissolve into nothing. No amount of likes fills the emptiness that lingers when the clicks die down.

You stare at the numbers, counting them like a miser with coins, but they mean nothing. The algorithm patted you on the head, only to drop you again. You gave everything, your time, your dignity, maybe a sliver of your soul for what? Fifteen seconds of fame, that vanishes faster than a pop-up ad. The emptiness afterward is the real cost: a gnawing sense that all the posing, crying, and dancing achieved nothing, except pulling you deeper into the colosseum’s machinery. And the worst part, you keep going, now with even more effort. You don’t just post anymore, you calculate. You study engagement times like holy scripture. And on top you reshape your face, your tone and your existence to fit the latest trend format. You pretend it’s strategy. But really, you’re just starving for proof that you still exist. And so is everyone else. There are no boundaries anymore. And that’s the saddest part.

The worst part? Nobody knows what’s real. Behind every account could be a PR team, a bored teenager, or a bot from an overseas click farm. “You’re so inspiring!” bought for five cents a comment. The followers? Rented. The tears? Maybe onions, maybe acting lessons. It’s all a theater where the players stay invisible. The content grows dumber, crasser, more banal, a dance video in slow motion, a useless “poll,” a shallow quote against a sunset. That’s what the mob wants, or what the algorithm feeds them. And we applaud as humanity drowns in a whirlpool of kitsch and chaos.

What’s left is the question: What’s even real anymore? Nothing. The colosseum of clicks has turned us all into actors selling their souls for a moment in the spotlight. The big shots stage blockbusters, the small fry beg, the thinkers scream into the void. The algorithm laughs, the mob cheers, and humanity watches its dignity sink in a storm of hearts and retweets.

What if it's all just a giant trick and a performance?

A giant, curated playground designed to keep us busy scrolling, following each other and comparing without seeing what’s unfolding in the real world? What if the big accounts were never real? Just scripts with followers, built to keep us striving. What if none of this was about connection, but about keeping us occupied just enough to never ask why? Maybe the scariest part isn’t that it’s all fake. It’s that no one even thinks to question it.

So, keep clapping. Like, comment, degrade yourself. Maybe you’ll get a few clicks. Maybe you’ll be famous for 15 seconds. But when the likes fade and the emptiness sets in, ask yourself: If it’s all just a performance, what’s left of us? Well… Not much. Welcome to the Colosseum. Entry is free, but the bill comes later.

written by Euphemia van Dame

The Colosseum stands under a heavy sky, glowing in surreal orange light as a few scattered figures approach—drawn to the ruins of a world that once called this a stage.