Writings

18/05/2026

Nostalgia for a more hopeful tomorrow. The past has already passed, but not yet come to pass. The present is a never ending loop, with no signposts to signify this ride being over or that we've strapped into the next one. This relentless hum of today causing the soul to drift away, up there looking down on this body, going through the motions of mediation trying to please everybody. Our selves are curated, while the concept of individualism is long lost. In a world where everyone is seen but not held. This is the liberation we were promised, but how does it live up to the adult life we were always longing. This freedom doesn't feel free, but nothing's holding us back. Except the pocket sized, moustraps that live under our pillows. Not yet set to catch rats, they're the ones winning the race. So hold on to your fellow mice, they might help you hold your place. We can choose what we say, how and when we say it, but when you've heard out everyone else's side, your own poignancy starts fading. We're all going down with the ship, but there's no risk of drowning. The string quartet play us our final song, though we've already heard it. 

They gave us therapy to stop us fucking ourselves, then dating apps to get us to fuck eachother. Our most vulnerable moments are cast toward the amphitheatre, picked apart and discarded as if we were trading with a toddler. We’ve stolen all your depop likes, but honey please tell me all about your troubles and strifes. There's an IPA brewery that's just uncovered the meaning of life, it's somehow £3.30 but only on a Thursday, and I hope you're feeling flirty, because happy hour finishes at seven thirty. Our perfect Sunday consists of F1 and a roast, because this gastropub wants to hold a toast. To the day of rest, never coming to a close, because these small plates can't begin to hold our hunger for that feeling that no one really knows. We sit in our ivory towers as the crumbs of our never ending birthday cakes, trickle down to some poor bastard, clawing at the remnants. There's always someone worse off, but doesn't that make it worse. The idea of some poor soul, failed only by the curse of their birth. To which is broadcast for all to see, not to help or throw a lifeline, but just to be acknowledged and seen. Because silence is complicity, but to truly avoid it, you'd have to become a relentless foghorn martyring for the ones that never heard it 

We can again feel together, if things could just slow down before we drift into forever. These remnants of a time not too distant from our own, where plenty was wrong but at least we felt whole. Segregated and tucked away, hiding under the collective blanket. This pantomime of reality, seeping down to where you can no longer find it. Waking up with just enough flowers in our garden, knowing that reaching for sedation will be anything but reformation. Unable to take your hand away from the flame, we stare into the fire, our bodies all bubbling with blisters, trying to satiate our desperate desires. These colossal limbs are cooking under the fluorescent bulbs of today. Onlookers watch on, while they themselves start to decay. Some try to escape it but you can't help but be complicit. The world is ours so we should leave it how we found it. Shout out to the others that are drifting in the dark, just to say even though life doesn't feel real you're still here.

And while the roof collapses, Nostalgia holds us together. While we grieve the loss of a future that didn't arrive.