Noise, Fantasy, and the Fear of Meaning
Criticism, when offered in good faith, aims to illuminate. It engages with ideas, interrogates evidence, and leaves space for disagreement. The comment left by Harry Munker on my YouTube channel presents itself as such a critique—an unvarnished statement of “truth.” Yet on closer inspection, it reveals something quite different: not an analysis of my work, but an attempt to invalidate the very premise of creative autonomy.
The comment opens with an appeal to a vague collective—“people don’t rate AI content,” “they want original content.” No evidence is offered, no audience defined. This rhetorical move is familiar. By invoking an unnamed majority, the speaker positions himself as a spokesperson for consensus without the burden of proof. It is not argument by evidence, but by implication: everyone agrees, therefore debate is unnecessary. Ironically, this technique is among the least original in online discourse.
From there, the comment moves to audience erasure. I am told I have “no audience,” followed immediately by the concession that I once had one, and that it was “alright.” The contradiction is telling. The aim is not factual accuracy but psychological reduction—shrinking past engagement so the present may be dismissed as illegitimate. This tactic allows the critic to deny continuity: whatever existed before does not count, therefore whatever exists now cannot matter.
The accusation that I have “never really created anything apart from noise” continues this pattern. “Noise” is not a category; it is an aesthetic judgement masquerading as a conclusion. It avoids the inconvenience of definition. To label something as noise is to refuse engagement while maintaining the posture of having evaluated it. Panels, commentary, narrative projects, and long-form discussion are dismissed not because they lack form, but because their form is inconvenient to the critic’s worldview.
A significant shift occurs when the comment begins to moralise time. I am told that I am “wasting” my life, that I “cannot get that time back.” At this point, the critique abandons content entirely and becomes existential. This is no longer about whether the work is effective or persuasive, but whether it is permissible. Time-shaming is a form of social control, asserting that there exists a correct way to live, and that deviation from it is not merely inefficient, but foolish. Such arguments rarely arise from indifference; they arise from discomfort with autonomy.
The most serious charge is that my work has achieved nothing except “getting myself in trouble” and “facilitating abuse.” These are heavy moral accusations, yet they are offered without example, context, or evidence. This vagueness is strategic. By refusing specificity, the critic avoids accountability while still delivering the stain of allegation. It also reverses the dynamics of harm: if someone is targeted, harassed, or opposed, the implication is that they must have caused it. Responsibility is reassigned not through proof, but through insinuation.
The declaration that “this is the truth, like it or not” marks the closing of the rhetorical trap. Such language does not strengthen an argument; it attempts to end one. It asserts authority rather than earning it, positioning disagreement as denial of reality itself. History suggests that truth rarely requires such aggressive self-assertion.
The dismissal of King Arthur as “never having existed” exemplifies the comment’s broader misunderstanding. The project is not a literal claim about historical census records, but an engagement with myth, symbol, and political narrative. To reduce this to a factual gotcha is either wilful simplification or bad faith. Myths shape cultures, laws, and identities precisely because they are not bound by literalism. To deny their power is to misunderstand how meaning operates in the real world.
In a moment of apparent generosity, the critic acknowledges my work ethic, only to declare it tragically misapplied. This backhanded compliment serves a dual purpose: it allows the speaker to feel fair-minded while still condemning the entire direction of my work. Yet it also exposes a contradiction. If fantasy is meaningless, why does it provoke such sustained attention and concern? People do not write essays about things that truly do not matter.
The comment concludes by declaring that because fantasy “isn’t real,” there is neither success nor failure—only wasted time. This position collapses under minimal scrutiny. Nearly every social structure, political movement, and cultural institution began as narrative before becoming material. To deny the reality of imagination is not realism; it is a refusal to acknowledge how reality is made.
Ultimately, the comment reveals less about my work than about the anxieties of the critic. It is not indifference that drives such a response, but fixation. One does not spend this much energy explaining why something is meaningless unless it has already intruded upon one’s sense of order. The paradox is unavoidable: in attempting to erase significance, the comment confirms it.
If my work were truly nothing, silence would suffice. Instead, there is noise—carefully constructed, morally weighted, and insistently delivered. And in that noise, meaning persists, whether acknowledged or not.
