How Did We Get Here?
Picture this: it's 2017, and I'm a walking disaster. Burnout's got me by the throat, choking out every ounce of joy I once had, and I'm seriously wondering why I ever thought running a business was a good idea. Rewind to 2010—I was a different beast back then. Fresh-faced, excited, and practically oozing creative juice. I wasn't just some hotel and restaurant owner, I was a poet scribbling verses on napkins, a musician singing and shaping songs,a thespian hamming it up at dinner theatres, and an improv comedy nut who in some corner of the brain thought he could be the next big thing, move over Kapil Sharma, there's a new clown in town. My little hotel and venue thrived on that chaos. I'd whip up snarky and yet poetic ad copy, I'd design menus that popped with personality—think "Masala Dosa with a Side of Sass"—and I would lean on my theater and people skills to charm grumpy guests, or settle staff meltdowns with mediation. It all started as a real challenge and I thrived in the process.
Fast forward to 2017, and it's a total crash-and-burn. The spark? Gone. Buried under an avalanche of spreadsheets, septic tank disasters (yes, septic tanks—living the dream, right? Just didn’t realize the dream came with so much tourist poo), and guest rants about lumpy lumpy pillows or "there is a spider in my room". Yes there is a spider in your room, because your room is surrounded by jungle. I'd turned into a zombie—shuffling through life, no poems, no tunes, just me hunched over a calculator, praying the numbers would magically add up. I'd stare at the same Excel sheet for hours, watching profits dwindle while my sanity followed suit. My vibrant and popular restaurant felt like a prison cell, and I was both the warden and the inmate, trapped in a loop of monotony.
Whatever scraps of free time I managed to claw back, I'd waste doomscrolling Facebook—hours lost to unhinged conspiracy threads about lizard people secretly running the government or clickbait like "Top 10 Ways to Cook Kale Like a Boss." I'd dive into YouTube comment wars with random strangers over absolutely nothing, just to feel a flicker of something—anything. Wake up, slog, scroll, sleep, repeat. My creative soul wasn't just dormant—it was locked away in some dusty attic, gathering cobwebs while I withered in the real world.
Then a mate—crypto-obsessed, wild-haired, the kind of guy who'd pitch Bitcoin over a greasy plate of samosas—invited me to a meetup. I went in skeptical, expecting a room full of hoodie-clad nerds yammering about "to the moon" nonsense and dreaming of Lambos. But the vibe? It hooked me. These weren't just tech bros; they were rebels, dreamers, folks who saw crypto as a middle finger to a world that'd beaten them down. One guy, a former banker with a fire in his eyes, rambled about how blockchain could bring banking to the unbanked. It was a fun chat and felt like the jolt I needed. So I dove headfirst into the rabbit hole. Listened to podcasts and read articles for months. Slowly wrapping my head around this new vernacular. Most tokens I stumbled across were pure gibberish—use cases so vague I couldn't tell if they were scams or just badly pitched startup pitches. Eventually I hit on this social media token idea. Somehow the idea of decentralized social media made sense.
The roots of the Hive Blockchain stretch back to 2016, but I crashed the party in September 2017. At first glance, it was a techie jungle—posts about blockchain this, DApps that, proof-of-brain buzzwords flying around, upvotes, reputation scores, top 20 witnesses, resource credits, delegations. My brain was screaming for mercy. I tossed out a few clumsy posts—awkward stabs at creativity. But my post barely made a ripple in the digital pond. Frustrated, I bailed for a few weeks, ready to write it off as another failed experiment. But something kept nagging at me, gnawing at the edges of my mind. I'd lost me—the writer, the dreamer, the goofball who'd once thrived on chaos and turned it into art. Living for bills and family duty wasn't cutting it anymore; it was suffocating me. I wanted my soul back—desperately. So I threw down a gauntlet: 90 posts in 90 days. One a day, no excuses, no backing out. Not for likes, not for cash—just to see if I could still create, if that fire was still in me somewhere. I used Hive like a lifeline, like lighting a fire for motivation.
The Journey Begins
Spoiler alert: I didn't get a standing ovation. At first, I got nada. Zilch. Absolute silence. I hurled everything I had at Hive—poems that barely rhymed, some silly videos, free-write rants about life. I entered an art contest, and somehow I won (with an entry from a guy who can't draw a straight line to save his life). I made “walk with me sweaty” hike photo posts. I shared some songs. I wrote essays about burnout that were more cathartic than coherent, spilling my guts onto the page; even meta-Hive blogs about Hive blogging, where I mused aloud about whether anyone was even reading my nonsense.
First month? Pennies, if that. A stray comment here, a polite nod there, but mostly a big fat wall of silence. Here's the kicker, though: I didn't care. For the first time in years, I was making stuff again—creating, not just existing. I'd wake up buzzing, itching to write, snap a photo, or film something—anything. It was like rediscovering a lost limb, flexing muscles I'd forgotten I had. Slowly, I started finding my people—photographers capturing the chaotic beauty, artists turning mundane moments into magic, met a comic from Iraq that riffed on life's absurdities with a wicked grin, videographers documenting everything from Ganpati festivals to roadside food stalls, poets weaving words into silk threads, and fellow weirdos who just seemed to get me.
Then the magic kicked in: I started engaging with their stuff—as I left more comments, guess what? I started to get more comments and earnings. I still remember the first time I earned a dollar on a post, I whooped like I'd hit the jackpot! My wife rolled her eyes and muttered, "It's just a dollar, chill." But to me? It was pure gold—not the cash, but the validation, the connection, the proof that my voice still had a pulse. Hive taught me a golden rule: energy flows both ways. Want eyes on your work? Put your eyes on theirs first. Want comments? Drop some love on their posts before expecting it back. I live by a 5-to-1 ratio: leave five comments, get one back, and call it a win. It's not some cold, transactional game; it's communal, like a digital campfire where everyone brings something to share.
Social Media: The Attention-Sucking Leeches We Can't Quit!
Let's cut the crap: mainstream social media isn't your friend. It's not here to "connect" you or sprinkle joy on your life like some digital fairy godmother. It's a gang of Silicon Valley suits rubbing their greasy mitts together, plotting how to squeeze every last dollar via your eyeballs. Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, Snapchat, TikTok—they're all in on it, and we're the suckers feeding the beast. These aren't apps; they're attention leeches, sunk deep into your brain, slurping up every second you waste looking at your ex's vacation pics visiting Goa—complete with that smug "living my best life" caption—or some influencer's fake-perfect existence in some high-rise, posing with a heart art cappuccino.
Why? Because your attention is their drug, and they're hooked worse than a street junkie. Every like on that over-filtered sunset photo, every comment on a viral dance challenge, every "ooh, cute puppy" reaction is another hit, and they're cashing in big time. They sell your clicks to advertisers who'd shove overpriced protein shakes, dodgy data plans, or "miracle" weight-loss teas down your throat without a second thought.
Take Facebook—it's not just a platform; it's a surveillance machine with a creepy grin. It knows your dog's name, your favorite biryani joint in Hyderabad, and probably that secret crush you've never told a soul about. It's like that nosy auntie who won't stop asking when you're getting married, except it's way more invasive and has better tech. Instagram? It's a glossy highlight reel of lives you'll never live, making you feel like a total loser for not having six-pack abs or a beach house to flaunt. YouTube's algorithm is a relentless black hole—start with a recipe for butter chicken, and three hours later, you're 20 videos deep watching some weirdo build a mud hut in the middle of nowhere, wondering where your night went. Snapchat's all about quick, fleeting thrills—poof, gone, like a cheap Diwali cracker that leaves you with nothing but a faint whiff of smoke. And TikTok? That's the kingpin of the lot, frying your brain with 15-second dopamine hits—dance moves, lip-syncs, random goats screaming—while some faceless overlord laughs all the way to the bank.
A 2021 Statista study pegged Indians at 2.5 hours a day on social media—second only to texting. That's 900 hours a year, vanished into the ether. They don't need you; they own you. You're livestock, herded and milked until you're a drooling, exhausted shell. Ever wonder why you're knackered all the time, chasing a void that never fills? Thank the corporations and their cronies—they've got your soul on a leash. Then there's the algorithm game—those shadowy puppet masters pulling your strings like a twisted marionette show. They're not just serving up cute cat clips. Nope, they're engineered to trap you, to keep you scrolling like a hamster on a wheel. Every like, every pause, every mindless scroll tells them what hooks you, and they shove it right back in your face.
Instagram buries your friend's heartfelt post about their child's first wobbly step but boosts some random influencer's rant about avocado toast because it's "engaging"—translation: it keeps you glued. TikTok's algorithm is so sharp it's borderline witchcraft—one minute you're watching a recipe, the next you're knee-deep in baby-yoga tutorials or flat-earth debates, blinking at your phone like "how did I get here?" A 2022 IIT Bombay study found these algorithms love amplifying divisive content—politics, religion, anything that gets your blood boiling—because outrage is the stickiest glue there is. They don't give a damn about truth or unity; they care about ad bucks and keeping you hooked. You're not a user—you're a data cow, milked dry for profit. So next time you're lost in a scroll spiral, bleary-eyed at 2 a.m., ask yourself: who's really winning this game?
Is Hive a Cult? I'm Scared
Okay, I hear you—at first glance a blockchain-based social platform where you own your content and cash in on engagement? Smells like a tech cult, right? Like some shadowy group of coders huddled in a basement, chanting "decentralization" in unison while sacrificing a goat to the blockchain gods—or at least that's what it might feel like when you first dip your toes in. But flip that around for a sec: why's it considered normal that Facebook uses us like disposable napkins, pocketing billions while we get nothing but a measly like button and a dopamine drip?
Hive's deal is refreshingly simple: it's decentralized, meaning no single overlord is calling the shots. There's no CEO lurking behind a curtain, no algorithm cherry-picking your feed based on ad dollars. Instead, it's a blockchain with multiple front ends—think of them as different doors to the same wild party. You've got PeakD, Ecency, InLeo, each with its own flavor, and most are open-source. That means coders can peek under the hood, tweak the engine, or even build their own version from scratch. It's like having a thousand chefs in the kitchen, each tossing in their own spice to keep things interesting. That's not a flaw; it's a flex. Choice beats being spoon-fed corporate slop any day.
Now, let's tackle the elephant in the room: the money bit. Newbies hear "earn from your posts" and picture themselves rolling in dough like a Bollywood star, sipping chai on a private jet. Then they post a blurry selfie with a caption like "good vibes," rake in two cents, and rage-quit faster than you can say "blockchain." But hold up—when's the last time Instagram cut you a cheque? Never, that's when. Hive's giving you something—even if it just starts with nickels and dimes, it's more than 0 Zuck bucks. And on Hive it's not just about posting; it's about curating, engaging, building something lasting. It's not instant riches, but it's a real, tangible reward for real effort. Still, Hive's not for the faint-hearted—it's got a learning curve. You've got to wrap your head around upvotes, curation trails, staking Hive Power for influence, and a dozen other geeky terms that sound like they belong in a sci-fi novel. It's a nerd's paradise, and that's exactly what makes it dope. It's raw, unpolished, and real—no glossy corporate sheen here. Misconceptions float around like pesky flies—people think it's a Ponzi scheme or a crypto bro haven full of "HODL" tattoos and bad haircuts. Nah. It's just a platform that flips the script: you're the owner, not the tenant; the creator, not the pawn. It takes effort—sometimes a lot of it—but isn't that better than being a mindless cog in someone else's profit machine?
I'm Home
Hive didn't just save my creativity—it gave me a home, a digital sanctuary where I could breathe again. I stumbled in, a burned-out mess with bags under my eyes and a soul on life support, and found a rebellion that vibed with every fiber of my being. It's where I've logged family adventures— I've swapped stories with strangers who turned into friends who I visited in this so called real world— I've even flexed my inner CEO by mentoring newbies, guiding them through the wild jungle of blockchain without letting them lose their minds—or their passwords.
Hive's a buffet of brilliance: writers spinning tales that pull you in, coders building what they hope will be the next big thing, artists turning pixels into gold, foodies sharing recipes that make your stomach growl, all thriving in their own little corners of this sprawling digital universe. On YouTube you need 10,000 subscribers before you can apply to make a penny, yet on Hive, from day 1 you can get rewarded directly by the community, no middleman skimming the top. No censorship, no account bans. It's not flawless—oh no. Tech glitches and clunky UX can test your patience, like when the site crashes mid-post and you're left screaming at a blank screen, your magnum opus lost to the ether. But that's the beauty of it: it's decentralized, so we all get a say in shaping it.
I've watched developers pounce on bugs like hawks, community members pitch fixes over virtual chai, and the whole ecosystem evolve in real time. It's messy, it's chaotic, but it's ours. I see Hive growing, maybe even shaking up India's creator scene, where platforms like ShareChat still kneel to ad lords and algorithmic overlords. Hive's a gamble on a future where we own our digital lives, not rent them from some faceless corporation in a glass tower. So, jump in. Explore. It's not perfect—far from it—but it's real. Hive's messy, wild, and worth every second. I'm home—come find yours.
About the author: B.P. Lee is a hotel owner, writer, poet, singer, podcaster, and father. He has organized large-scale artistic events in Goa and Dharamshala, bringing people together through creativity and community. He believes that collaboration and unity are our strongest tools against greed and inequality.
About Hive: Hive is a decentralized information-sharing network with an accompanying blockchain-based financial ledger built on the Delegated Proof of Stake (DPoS) protocol. Hive supports many different types of information-sharing applications. A myriad of dapps, APIs, and front-ends contribute to the accessibility of data on the Hive blockchain. Hive is developed to store vast amounts of content and to make it easily available for time-based monetization. Examples of use cases include social media with monetized rewards for content producers, interactive games, identity management, and polling systems. The performance of the blockchain is designed to scale with widespread adoption of the currency and platforms in mind. By combining the lightning-fast processing times and fee-less transactions, Hive is positioned to become one of the leading blockchain technologies used by people worldwide. Learn more about Hive and sign up today at .
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