When Everything Becomes a Moroccan Souk

Digital Burnout

Ever been to a Moroccan souk?

Picture this: you're walking through narrow alleys filled with beautiful crafts, vibrant textiles, and aromatic spices. At first, it's magical. But then the calls start coming from every direction: "Best price!" "Come look!" "Special deal!" Before you know it, you're no longer browsing – you're just trying to get through without making eye contact, maybe snapping a few quick photos instead of actually engaging with anything.

And then you start noticing that everyone's selling the same stuff. Those "unique tribal carvings" you bought in Thailand? I saw them in Mexico too. That "one-of-a-kind" artisanal piece? It's mass-produced and available on Alibaba.com. The authenticity you were searching for turns out to be just another carefully crafted illusion.

Sound familiar? Because this is pretty much what being online feels like these days.

We're all trapped in a digital souk where everyone's trying to sell us something – if not products, then ideas, lifestyles, or versions of ourselves we should aspire to be.

And just like those overwhelmed tourists, we're responding by becoming increasingly defensive and disconnected. We keep scrolling, but we're not really there. The supposed uniqueness of content, ideas, and experiences starts to feel like those mass-produced "authentic" souvenirs – the same things repackaged and resold as original insights.

What we're really craving online is genuine responsiveness – that feeling that our actions create meaningful ripples in the world around us. But instead, we're getting what feels like manufactured engagement. Sure, we get likes, comments, and algorithmic recommendations, but they often feel as mass-produced as those "authentic" souvenirs. We can sense when engagement is real versus when it's just another transaction.

So here we are: simultaneously hooked and checked out.

We compulsively check social media while engaging with it less deeply. We consume more content than ever but digest less of it. We're connected 24/7 but rarely feel like we're having real conversations. It's as if we're suffering from a collective case of digital indigestion, made worse by the creeping realization that most of what we're consuming is just recycled content in different packaging.

Remember how exciting it used to be to discover new things online?

Now we're just tired. Tired of the perfectly curated morning routines that never quite work in real life. Tired of the productivity frameworks that look good on paper but feel hollow in practice. Tired of being optimized within an inch of our lives. And perhaps most of all, tired of the endless stream of supposedly unique insights that all somehow sound the same.

The worst part? Everyone's frustrated – both the creators desperately trying to reach their audience and the audience desperately trying to find something genuine among all the noise. Just like in that souk, where neither the sellers nor the tourists are getting what they really want.

We've turned the infinite possibilities of the internet into an overwhelming bazaar where authentic connection is drowning in a sea of transactions, and true originality is getting harder to find beneath layers of repetition and imitation. And maybe that's the real tragedy: somewhere between all the optimization and curation, we lost not just the simple joy of discovery, but the ability to trust in authenticity itself.

The question isn't whether the digital world is good or bad – clearly, it's here to stay. The real question is: how do we recreate spaces where we can browse at our own pace? Where we can have genuine exchanges instead of just transactions? Where we can find truly original voices among the echoes? Where we can rediscover that initial sense of wonder without the overwhelming pressure to constantly engage, optimize, and perform?

Maybe it starts with admitting that we're all a bit exhausted. And that's okay.

(Do you know who collected all my souvenir money? A cat guy. I stopped to pet his cats on my way back to the hotel, tired of all the frenzy. Wa talked. He showed me an album full of cat photos. We cracked some jokes. I bought his stuff.)