Performative creative processes in the midst of deceleration, an awakening of depletion, and hartera settling into our lives.
In Spanish, we use the word hartera to describe that state where we feel incapable of dealing with things anymore, a mix of powerlessness, exhaustion, and unwillingness. It’s not just boredom. It’s saturation.
We live in a world where we are constantly bombarded: things to do, audio and visual triggers, checklists, performance metrics, and the pressure to show the outside world how talented, witty, opinionated, or wise we are.
In this era of performative tasks, quietness is undervalued and often mistaken for a lack of ambition, goals, or dreams. I may be exaggerating, but when I look at the feeds around me, it’s hard to deny we all fall for it. As if, if it’s not on Instagram, it didn’t happen.
But really, did it not happen?
Even writing this piece on Substack is, in itself, a performative act. A form of performative writing that I’m openly daring to criticize. This double morality is allowed, ask Camus, Nietzsche, Jung, or even Dostoevsky. Nothing is as simple as we want it to be.
Too many triggers, at least from my perspective, numb me. A sense of deep boredom and dissatisfaction descends, and hartera invades every cell of my body. To the point where even the words of people I feel close to begin to lose meaning, dissolving into mental noise rather than connection.
And yet, not all performative acts are empty. Some are necessary. Some are beneficial. Books, blogs, vlogs, travel itineraries or films. They shape us, move us, awaken something.
So where is the line?
Is there a thin boundary between deliberate performative craft and hollow performance?
Intention. That’s the key.
Intention.
Behind the multiple layers of what we write, compose, or shoot, there is an intention capable of awakening a transformative force , one that motivates others to pursue their passions and goals, regardless of the void imposed by societal norms.
In the end, the question this piece leaves me - and you - with is simple, yet uncomfortable:
Do we create for the act of creating itself, or only for ourselves?
For me, creation is a way to battle hartera. To resist numbness. To stay awake in a world that keeps asking us to perform instead of feel.