The Cult of the Echo: How Repetition Becomes Religion

by Trutherella Jones

In the age of infinite scroll, I see how every lie wants to be a mantra. Every headline feels like a hymn. Somewhere between outrage and entertainment, the line blurs—and I watch as the Tangerine Toddler turns that blur into a business model. The trick isn’t the lie itself; it’s the loop. I realize that if I say something enough, it hardcodes into my memory. The human brain, poor thing, loves patterns more than truth. Repetition becomes belief. The media knows this—and plays priest anyway, shaping our perceptions and convictions. They claim to be “fact-checking,” yet first, they chant falsehoods like holy verses. Headlines flash across my feed like neon confessions. By the time the correction lands, the lie has already multiplied. The network doesn’t care which side I’m on—only that I click, share, and rage, feeding its profit model. The old religion had crosses and incense. The new one has hashtags and ad revenue.

Here’s the paradox: most journalists have good intentions. They’re told to be transparent, to represent both sides, to shed light on every aspect of a story. But when one side keeps inventing its own reality, that illumination turns into an unintended spotlight. Coverage becomes currency, and attention a form of endorsement. The aim was to expose the lie, but somewhere along the way, exposure gave it value. Journalism’s mission—to inform—has been reprogrammed into “engage.” And engagement doesn’t care if it’s truth or poison, as long as it’s viral.

So I scroll, react, repost—worshipping outrage like it’s my civic duty. This is how the Cult of the Echo works. It doesn’t need belief; it needs attention. Misinformation doesn’t survive because it’s persuasive. It survives because it’s loud. The smarter resistance doesn’t shout “fake news.” It studies the pattern. It sees how repetition builds faith, and faith builds obedience. It asks the forbidden question: Who profits when confusion reigns? The goal isn’t to convert me—it’s to exhaust me. If I can’t tell what’s real, I stop trying to care. And in that numb space, control slips in quietly, like background noise I stopped noticing.

So maybe rebellion isn’t about arguing online. Maybe it’s about cutting the feed, starving the spell. The cult runs on attention, not agreement. And truth, whatever shape it still takes, doesn’t need to trend.

At this point, I’m convinced the real battle isn’t political—it’s psychological. My poor brain wasn’t built for the infinite scroll; it just wants to find patterns and feel safe. And the internet knows that. Every repetition sneaks in like a jingle I never meant to memorize, until the familiar starts feeling like truth. Outrage becomes routine. Confusion becomes comfort. The trick isn’t to make me believe—it’s to make me tired. Because once I’m exhausted, I’ll stop checking sources and start accepting slogans. That’s when control slips in—quietly, like autoplay.

So maybe my rebellion isn’t about winning arguments online. Maybe it’s about logging off before my brain starts buffering—reclaiming my attention one scroll-free evening at a time. After all, if attention is the new currency, I’d rather spend mine on something that doesn’t yell back.

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Image Credits: Runway Gen-4