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You know how people are fascinated, even obsessed, with Bitcoin. Bitcoin this, Bitcoin that, Bitcoin everywhere. Endless talk, endless debate, endless energy poured into it, purchases made for enormous sums of money. But whoever actually gets Bitcoin quickly realizes it is so useless that they need someone from outside the Bitcoin system to save their investment. Nothing that constitutes Bitcoin, neither the units themselves nor the network, can help its holders get anything. If people outside Bitcoin do not step in by giving them something, it is game over.
Now stop and think about how crazy this actually is. If Bitcoin gives nothing to anyone, what exactly is there to be fascinated about. What exactly is all this energy spent on. What justifies paying such enormous sums of money for it. Why does the whole thing even exist.
The moment this is examined seriously, it stops making sense. This becomes even stranger when you consider that literally everything humans have ever traded, even the most trivial objects or things whose primary role is monetary, symbolic, or speculative, can give at least something to someone on its own.
Take fiat money, the system Bitcoin defines itself against. We all know people or businesses burdened by bank loans. Fiat money, which is created through the issuance of those very loans, can repay them and release borrowers from debt. Even if no one outside the fiat system steps in, the system itself gives something through its units. Mortgages are released, liens are removed, repossessions are stopped, assets are returned to debtors, and obligations are canceled. The holder does not need to be rescued by an outsider. The money gives something directly via its system.
The same logic applies to art. Even when art is absurdly overpriced or completely illiquid, it still gives something to someone. It can be looked at, lived with, and experienced. It can provoke emotion, reflection, irritation, or pleasure. A painting hanging on a wall does not stop giving something just because no buyer shows up.
Collectibles work the same way. Coins can be held, examined, weighed, and inspected for detail and wear. Stamps can be looked at closely, their texture, print, and age observed. Books can be opened, read, smelled, and physically handled. Watches can be worn, wound, and felt ticking on the wrist. Cards and memorabilia can be touched, displayed, sorted, and visually examined. Even if their market value collapses and no one wants to buy them, these objects still engage the senses. They do not become inert. They still give something simply by existing as physical things that can be interacted with.
This is also true for things people often mock as overpriced or frivolous. Luxury goods can still be worn. Designer objects still perform their basic functions. Even the simplest items, chewing gum, a pen, a chair, give something directly. They do not sit idle waiting for someone else to take them off your hands in order to matter.
This logic does not break down when we move from physical objects to digital ones. Software can edit text, a game can be played, a digital book can be read, music can be listened to, and photographs and videos can be viewed.
In every one of these cases, the object can stand on its own. It can give something to at least one person without requiring an outside savior. Trade may enhance value, price may fluctuate wildly, but the thing itself is never reduced to pure dependence.
Bitcoin is different in a very specific and troubling way. It gives nothing to anyone. Someone outside the system must give holder something. Every holder is forced into the same position. They cannot use it, apply it, experience it, or settle anything with it inside the system. Their only hope is that an outsider will take it and give them something. The entire system exists only as a waiting room for that handoff.
This is why the fascination is so hard to understand. People devote time, energy, hardware, electricity, attention, and identity to something that cannot give them anything. The object of obsession is something everyone must eventually get rid of. Accumulation is praised, yet disposal is the only possible end. Holding is celebrated, yet holding achieves nothing. The only possible goal is to stop holding.
What keeps the system alive is the expectation that of its participants that outsiders will keep giving them something. It survives by continuously pulling new participants into the role of rescuer for those already inside. Strip away the slogans and the technical jargon, and what remains is stark. An immense collective effort is organized around pure nothingness.
That is the paradox. A thing that cannot give is treated as something worth endless fascination, sacrifice, and protection. A thing everyone must escape is sold as something to cling to. Measured against everything else humans have ever produced or traded, this is not just unusual. It is a complete inversion of reality.