I've been grieving for as long as I can remember, and the strange part — the part that took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out — is that nobody died.
Not recently, anyway. Not in the way that makes it socially legible, the kind that comes with a casserole and a sympathy card and a socially allotted window of being allowed to feel like the floor has dropped out from under you. The grief I carry isn't that kind. It doesn't have a face I can frame on a mantelpiece. It doesn't have a date on a headstone.
It has a feeling, though. God, does it have a feeling.
I think the first time I understood it — really understood it, in the bones — was somewhere around twenty-three. I was sitting in a place I'd been before, doing a thing I'd done a hundred times, and I felt it: this quiet, sourceless devastation. Like finding a room in your childhood home that you'd somehow never noticed, and discovering it had been stripped bare and repainted, and no one had thought to tell you.
The world was supposed to be a certain shape.
Someone promised me it was going to be a certain shape.
I don't know who made that promise. Books, probably. The specific quality of Saturday mornings in primary school. A particular certainty that lived in my chest, somewhere between the ribs, that things would arrive — that effort would compound into meaning, that the person I was working so hard to become would one day feel like someone worth being. That the world would make room for me in a way that felt generous rather than grudging.
It did not, as it turns out, do that.
Here's the thing they don't tell you about ambiguous grief, the kind that isn't about someone: it's worse, in a lot of ways, because it resists explanation. You can't name it without sounding either spoiled or unhinged. What are you grieving, exactly? Well. Let me see. The version of myself I was going to be. The life I was going to have. The enthusiasm I used to carry around without knowing it was something that could run out. The years I spent being so sure I understood what mattered, only to watch those certainties dissolve without ceremony.
I'm grieving futures that were never confirmed, only implied. They were implied very strongly, I would like to note.
I'm grieving the promises I made to my younger self in the dark — that I would get there, that it would be worth it, that the difficult years were laying groundwork and not just passing. I kept my end of the deal. I showed up. I did the thing. The promise just quietly went home without me.
There's a specific texture to this kind of loss that I've spent years trying to describe accurately. It's not dramatic. That's the problem. Dramatic grief is at least visible — it has a shape, a clear before-and-after, a story you can tell. This is more like erosion. Like standing at the edge of something that used to be coast and noticing, almost abstractly, how much land is gone. You didn't see it happen. You just see what's left.
And what's left is: me. In a life that is fine, technically. Good, even, by several objective metrics. Looking at the coordinates of the thing I thought I was building and trying to map them onto where I actually am, and finding the scales don't match.
I know what the sensible response to this is. I know the language of it. Grieve the fantasy, not the future. Let go of the life you thought you were going to have. Very clean. Very useful, probably. I've repeated it to myself often enough to have worn grooves in it. And intellectually, I believe it. I do.
But there's something that resists being let go of, which is the sheer weight of who I was when I made those promises. How seriously I meant them. How much of myself I poured into a version of the future that I genuinely believed in. It feels almost like a betrayal of him— of the person I was then, so earnest, so certain, so absolutely certain — to just... let the thing he wanted dissolve without marking it.
So I mark it. Over and over. Apparently.
Is it normal to think about grief this much?
I asked someone this once, half-joking, the way you ask questions you're not sure you want answered. They said something about how some people are just wired for it, for the looking-back, for the inventory. Like a personality trait. Like eye colour.
Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm just constitutionally oriented toward what's been lost rather than what remains.
Or maybe — and I think about this more than I'd like to admit — the grief is just the honest response. Maybe the world was supposed to be different. Maybe the promises weren't delusion but something closer to theft: a future extended on credit that was never going to clear. And the sadness isn't weakness or pathology or an unwillingness to grow up. It's just accurate accounting.
We were handed something and told to expect more of it. And then the lights changed and someone said that's all, actually, that's what there is, and we were expected to simply adjust our expectations and carry on.
I keep trying to carry on. I do carry on, mostly. But I think about the grief. I sit with it sometimes like an old argument I never fully resolved.
It was a good world, the one I thought was coming. I'm still not entirely over it not arriving.
Cornfields, Ghosts, and the Guy Who Runs the Diner at Midnight
You never really forget the summer you first arrive in a place like Ashwood.
Not the way the highway peels away into cornfields and wild grass, or how the streets shrink down until even your worries can’t fit. There’s a kind of hush here, an old-soul quiet, like the town’s still catching its breath from secrets it’s not ready to spill.
Some folks say nothing ever happens in a Midwest town like ours, but if you listen long enough—really listen—you’ll hear otherwise. You’ll catch it in the whisper of willow branches against chipped porch railings, in the half-glances from neighbors at the post office, in the low hum of the diner after midnight when the regulars have all but dozed off. Every cracked sidewalk and leaning mailbox has a story or three, if you know where to look.
When my father and I first rolled up the drive to the old Hensley house, I remember the windows watching us—tall and narrow, clouded with dust and the memory of people I’d never know. Dad said it needed “a little work.”
Thewhole place creaked and sighed like it was waking up from a long, strangedream.
We weren’t what you’d call “locals.” Not yet. Not with the way the hardware store clerk eyed us, or how the school secretary said our last name twice, just to taste the shape of it. But Ashwood has a way of folding you in, whether you belong or not. There’s comfort in the rhythm of familiar oddities—the mailman who whistles church hymns, the mayor who collects ceramic frogs, the retired teacher who claims to read fortunes in spilled coffee grounds. Every town has its quirks; ours just hid them better.
And then, there were the mysteries.
People talk. Stories grow wild as milkweed. They say the old mill is haunted, that the cornfield swallows up stray cats, that the man who works the graveyard shift at the diner only comes out after dark. Some of it is nonsense. Some of it, I learned, was only half true—half enough.
If I’d known what we were really stepping into that summer—the secrets, the friendships, the things that move just out of sight—I might have run screaming back to the city. Or maybe I would have just stood there on that crooked porch, as I did, and watched the world change around me, not knowing I was about to change too.
But that’s the way of Ashwood.
Sometimes, the strangest stories grow best in the quietest places. And every so often, if you’re lucky, you get to be part of one.
How to survive without creativity - a helpful guide from a (f*g) to you.
Here’s the deal: nobody—nobody—in this vast, meaningless expanse is actually “uncreative.” Sure, some folks are hopeless at doodling stick figures but can whip up ingenious spreadsheets; others trip over their own imaginations yet excel at, I don’t know, convincing plants they’re alive. Everyone’s got something—even if it’s just a talent for accidentally blowing things up in the kitchen.
But that’s not what I’m yammering on about. When I say “without creativity,” I mean that soul-sucking, brain-frying moment when you stare at your project and poof—your ideas evaporate faster than your will to live after one too many Zoom calls. You’re not just out of inspiration; you’re out of gas, oxygen, and possibly the will to keep pretending you’re an artist. And trust me, I get it. We’ve all been stuck in that barren wasteland of the mind, clutching at the last wisps of imagination like a dehydration-survivor clutching a rock.
So let’s dive in—because, frankly, you’ve got nowhere else to go, and I’m too caffeinated to sugarcoat this.
First things first, let’s all raise a glass to the true mastermind of our creative block: sprinkle sprinkle Capitalism sprinkle sprinkle. Go ahead, groan, roll your eyes, call me a cliché—but you know it’s true. Whether you’re chained to a cubicle at MegaCorp™️, scanning groceries in Retail Hell, or serving lattes to people who think “extra foam” is a personality trait, that’s where you spend most of your waking hours—and where your soul goes to quietly die.
Meanwhile, in the grand dystopia we affectionately call “Beautiful Earth,” you’re desperately trying to keep your head above water: juggling rent, utilities, and the rare treat of an actual meal that isn’t from a vending machine. And if you’re unlucky enough to live in the United States, congratulations—you get the VIP pass of either crippling student loans or a surprise medical bill that’ll haunt you longer than your ex ever did. Enjoy!
Look, I’m not saying capitalism is the only reason we’re swimming in this corporate slop—there are plenty of other toxic soup ingredients—but it’s definitely the one doing the heavy lifting. Once upon a time, you had art movements like Art Deco sprouting up all over the place, paying everyone from glassblowers to poster designers to do cool shit. The Renaissance? A playground for artists, bankrolled by rich families who actually wanted frescoes of mythological creatures instead of Instagram selfies. Today, though, our richest guy sips champagne in Venice, admiring the same old masterpieces, while Lady Gaga’s probably off somewhere setting fire to a giant meat dress at his wedding.
See, in capitalism’s early days, art was literally a favor-for-hire: you painted angels in someone’s chapel, they paid you in coins or land or lordship. Fast-forward through the Industrial Revolution, and suddenly art isn’t a luxury—it’s a product. Factories churning out prints, steamships exporting paintings, department stores selling lithographs. Progress! Except the moment art entered the marketplace, its soul got tagged with a price: not for its ability to stir hearts, but for how much investors would cough up.
Which brings us to the first casualty: authenticity. When galleries and auction houses treat canvases like Bitcoin—buy low, sell high—artists start crafting whatever’s “hot.” That means safe, bland, easily hangable stuff that will look “sophisticated” in a billionaire’s foyer. The result? A glut of pastel abstracts and minimal sculpture that say exactly nothing, except “my owner has money.” Meanwhile, any art that genuinely challenges power or experiments with new forms ends up gathering dust in some nonprofit basement, because there’s no quick resale in outrage.
Next up: division. Capitalism didn’t just slap price tags on art, it built walls around it. Artists become these elusive “creatives” who can only survive by catering to collectors or corporate brands. The rest of us? We’re left watching from the sidelines—patrons of Instagram story slideshows, unable to pick up a brush without thinking, “Why bother? Who’s going to pay me for this?” We get turned into consumers rather than co-creators, our own innate creativity locked away like it’s a collectible action figure.
Then there’s the delightful phenomenon of artwashing—corporate speak for “let’s look cultured so you’ll overlook the butchering of the planet.” Big Oil sponsors blockbuster exhibits, tech giants slap their logos on biennales, and real neighborhoods get “revitalized” with murals—right before rents triple and every mom-and-pop shop closes. They sell you the illusion of a thriving arts district while quietly auctioning off your community to the highest bidder.
And don’t forget the puppet masters pulling the strings: the billionaire patrons, the luxury-brand sponsors, the institutional gatekeepers. They decide what counts as “important” art, which means you can either toe their line—no radical politics, no messy social critique—or kiss your shot at any real exposure goodbye. Want to stay true to your vision? Prepare to subsist on ramen and heartbreak… unless you fancy hitching your wagon to the next corporate-sponsored “artist collective.”
Now that we’ve gotten the capitalism blame-game out of the way, let me introduce our newest “friend” shoved down our throats like a bargain-basement porn flick: AI. Yeah, that magical algorithm that promises to “revolutionize” art—while quietly elbowing real artists out of the frame.
First off, AI is nothing more than capitalism’s efficiency wet dream. Why pay a human with feelings, coffee breaks, and emotional meltdowns when you can churn out a thousand cookie-cutter images before breakfast? Corporations drool at the idea of “content” you can mass-produce for pocket change. Who cares about sweat, tears, or that raw human spark when an algorithm can paste together pixels faster than you can say “sellout”?
Meanwhile, real artists get to watch their styles scavenged by faceless code. Your hard-earned brushstrokes? Scraped, analyzed, and spat back out in soulless variations—without so much as a “thank you” or a paycheck. If you thought juggling freelance gigs was precarious, try competing with a server farm that never tires, never needs healthcare, and never asks for royalties.
And let’s talk about what happens when art stops being art. Trending filters, viral-ready templates, algorithmic echo chambers—suddenly everything’s a remix of a remix of a remix. Where’s the risk? The weird experiments? The gut-punch emotions? Nowhere to be found, because AI isn’t interested in meaning or messiness—it’s optimized for clicks and conversions. Authenticity? That went extinct sometime between “generate” and “upload.”
Of course, there’s the little matter of ethics—ha! AI models feast on copyrighted images, music, and text scraped from the digital gutters, all in the name of “training.” The result? Tech giants stack their billions while actual creators get zilch. It’s the same old capitalist trick: concentrate the wealth, outsource the labor, and slap a “powered by AI” sticker on it for good measure.
Finally, let’s not forget the social fallout. Big brands plaster “art” across billboards and charity galas to distract you from demolishing communities for luxury condos. Grassroots voices? Revolutionary artists? They’re drowned in a sea of algorithm-approved wallpaper. If you’re not conforming to the corporate template, you might as well not exist.
So yeah, AI didn’t kill art—capitalism handed it a loaded gun. But hey, don’t lose hope: there are still those guerilla pockets of creativity rippling under the corporate sludge. You just have to dive in, dust off your own weird ideas, and refuse to let a bunch of code tell you what beauty is.
So you’ve survived the AI apocalypse and capitalism’s corporate sludge—congrats! Now what? How do you keep your human spark alive when your brain feels as dried up as yesterday’s coffee grounds? Let’s get you back in the game.
First, ditch the myth of the “born creative” genius. Creativity isn’t some exclusive club with a velvet rope—it’s a muscle you can train. Yeah, that means showing up even when your muse is on vacation. Try sketching silly doodles on sticky notes, brainstorming terrible business ideas just for laughs, or solving random puzzles. Little wins stack up, and before you know it, you’ll have more ideas than those AI bots you love to hate.
Next, go cold turkey on AI for a bit. I know, I know—it’s like giving up Netflix cold. But resist the urge to call on “ImageGen3000” every time you need a spark. Instead, scribble, type, or hum something into existence without any digital crutches. Remember what it felt like when ideas bubbled up all on their own? Rediscover that thrill, and you’ll remind yourself why you ever bothered being “creative” in the first place.
Then there’s the art of appreciating the mess. Nobody’s saying you have to produce Instagram-worthy masterpieces—just let yourself play. Make terrible poems, ugly sculptures, or songs that sound like angry cats. It’s the act of making that matters, not the likes you’ll never get. Release yourself from the tyranny of perfection and watch how your brain starts hat-tipping the unexpected.
Also, please—stop treating rest like a luxury. Burnout is creativity’s number-one killer. Schedule actual downtime: stare out the window, wander aimlessly, or binge-watch something shameful. In those “nothing” moments, your subconscious does the heavy thinking. You’ll come back with fresh angles, weird connections, and maybe even a sane mood.
Don’t forget to find your tribe of fellow misfits. Solo survival is overrated. Join a ragtag group of painters who can’t paint, writers who can’t stop rewriting, or musicians who can’t carry a tune. Share your half-baked ideas, swap war stories, and get real feedback—no AI-generated back-pats allowed. Community isn’t a buzzword; it’s a lifeline.
Challenge yourself with something new, too. Ever tried sculpting with kitchen scraps? Or writing a 50-word horror story? Tackling unfamiliar territory forces your brain into new lanes. You might flop spectacularly, but hey—that’s how you discover gold.
Remember: AI can’t feel your frustration at that last comma, can’t laugh at your goofy doodle, and sure as hell can’t tap into your messed-up childhood memories for inspiration. That emotional chaos? It’s your secret sauce. Lean into it. Write about that embarrassing thing your aunt said at Thanksgiving. Paint your anger at your inbox. That’s the stuff machines will never nail.
Lastly, treat AI like the intern it really is—hand off the grunt work (color corrections, typo hunting, that tedious background removal), but keep the creative vision firmly in your hands. When it comes to the spark, the messy, glorious human spark? That’s all you.
There you go—your no-bullshit guide to reclaiming your creativity in a world that’d rather you didn’t. Now quit whining, grab a pen (or your battered keyboard), and show ‘em what real art looks like.
And remember, if you see someone using AI on Twitter (deadnaming the birdapp) just tell them to pick up a pen.
“Thriving,” and Other Lies I Tell Myself While the Tram Breaks Down Again
Let’s get one thing straight: I’m killing it.
No, really. I’m writing this exactly one month and five days into being 25, which is to say: I’ve had 36 days to marinate in the existential broth of my mid-twenties. So far, it tastes like lukewarm tap water and the faint hope that maybe this will be the year I finally understand how taxes work.
I pay 400 euros a month to live in an apartment that’s approximately two shoeboxes and a prayer stacked vertically. The shower doubles as a storage unit for my existential dread (and also my laundry). It’s a 60-minute commute from work—a journey that involves two trams, one bus, and an existential crisis if the Wi-Fi’s out. But hey, I’m a real adult now! Nothing screams “I have my life together” like sprinting through the rain to catch the 7:14 tram while muttering, “This is fine,” like a corporate-mandated mantra. Bonus points if you do it while your umbrella inverts like a surrender flag to the universe.
When I was 18, I thought moving out would feel like freedom. Turns out, it’s just capitalism with better lighting. My savings account? Let’s call it a “conceptual art piece” about scarcity. But I do have a cat. A glorious, judgmental, snow-white chaos gremlin named Bianca who stares at me like I’ve personally offended her by existing. If anything happens to her, I’ll simply dissolve into the ether. No notes.
Oh, and I wrote three books! THREE. Count ’em! That’s three more than most people who still hashtag #WIP on Twitter. Are they published? LOL. Are they *good*? Debatable. One’s a fantasy epic abandoned after I realized world-building is just unpaid labor (and also that elves are just tall hipsters with better posture). Another’s a memoir that reads like a cry for help wrapped in dad jokes—Hyperbole and a Hall meets The Bell Jar, if Sylvia Plath had a side hustle reviewing artisanal toast. The third? Let’s just say it’s a “cult classic” waiting for its audience of exactly seven depressed English majors on Tumblr. I’ve accepted that my literary legacy will live on in the margins of a PDF I email myself at 2 a.m.
But here’s the thing: I’m weirdly proud of my little apocalypse. Sure, the world’s burning, rent’s due, and my LinkedIn is a graveyard of abandoned potential. But I’ve got Bianca knocking my coffee mug off the table like a tiny, furry anarchist. I’ve got three manuscripts rotting in the cloud like digital ghosts whispering, “You tried.” And I’ve got a commute that’s basically a daily audition for a Beckett play—Waiting for Godot, but Godot is the tram driver who definitely hates me. Last Tuesday, the tram doors malfunctioned and spat me out at a stop I’d never heard of, which is how I discovered a park bench that’s now my “office” for crying. 10/10 ambiance, would recommend.
Capitalism told me success was a straight line: degree, job, 2.5 kids, a McMansion with a mortgage that outlives you. Joke’s on capitalism—I took the scenic route. My life’s a collage of mismatched thrift store art, half-finished playlists, and Google Docs titled “FINALfinalactuallyfinal2.” I’m the Picasso of almost-there, baby!
So yeah, I’m “behind.” Behind what? The arbitrary timeline of a system that measures worth in productivity and paychecks? Cool. Let’s play a different game. Let’s measure it in:
Cats befriended (1, but she’s a *queen* who hisses at pigeons like they owe her rent).
Drafts complete (3, take that, imposter syndrome!).
Times I’ve cried on public transit (classified, but let’s just say the trams now have a loyalty program).
Minutes spent staring at the ceiling wondering if I’m the main character or just a background NPC (yes).
Birthdays survived (25, but who’s counting? Me, apparently. One month and five days into it, and I’ve already aged like milk left in the sun).
The world’s a dumpster fire, but I’ve learned to roast marshmallows on the flames. I’ll keep writing books no one reads, paying rent like it’s a blood sacrifice, and bribing Bianca with treats to stop biting my charging cables. Why? Because surviving this mess with a shred of humor is the ultimate middle finger to a system that wants us too exhausted to fight back.
And here’s the kicker: 25 feels like wearing someone else’s shoes. They’re stylish, but they pinch. One month and five days in, and I’ve already tripped twice. But I’m still walking. Stumbling, yes. Occasionally face-planting into a puddle of my own questionable life choices? Absolutely. But moving. Forward, sideways, diagonally—who cares? Motion is motion.
So here’s to 25. To the chaos. To the drafts. To the cat. To the trams that may or may not arrive on time—much like my potential. And to the next 11 months of this age, which I’ll either spend “adulting” or Googling “how to adult” while eating cereal for dinner.
Stay messy. Stay defiant. And if you see me sprinting for the tram, mind the puddles and the gap!
Still No Idea What I'm Doing (But I'm 25 Now, So It’s Classy)
The air smelled like a birthday cake left too long on the counter—sweet, but tinged with something sour. I was cross-legged on a couch that once cradled childhood sleepovers and teenage heartbreaks, now just an overstuffed relic sagging under my quarter-life weight. The TV murmured in the corner like a dying oracle. News ticker scrolling warzones. A world on fire. Kyiv crumbling. Rafah weeping. Somewhere, a president laughed.
It was my 25th birthday.
The room was full. Laughter echoed, and someone passed me a slice of cake that tasted like every other year. Candles flickered. Wishes whispered. Photos snapped for feeds destined to dissolve in twenty-four hours. But something in me didn’t want to be documented. Not this year. Not like this.
You know the script:
Blow out the candles.
Smile.
Receive the same five messages from people you haven't seen in years.
Play along.
But beneath the icing and nostalgia, something curdled. Maybe it was how my best friend’s joke about wrinkles didn’t quite land like it used to—less banter, more autopsy. Or maybe it was the background noise bleeding into the foreground: children buried beneath concrete, flags wrapped around trauma, empires pulling levers with bloodied hands.
There’s a moment in every loop when the repetition becomes unbearable.
And that moment arrived.
I’m 25.
Which is so fucking weird, because just yesterday—
I was 18.
At least, it feels that way.
Eighteen and raw. Scraping at the gates of adulthood with borrowed keys and glittering ambition. I thought I’d have it figured out by now. Instead, I have:A breakup I still autopsy in the dark. A pile of national exam prep that stares back like a dare. Driving school quizzes bookmarked beside fanfiction tabs. Three creative projects, one barely readable. A notes app bursting with character sheets, deadlines, and a reminder to buy laundry detergent.
This is what twenty-five looks like: unfinished dreams and cracked screens. Potential and paralysis, cohabitating.
And then there’s you, Zagreb.
You ridiculous, radiant, reluctant city.
You’re all chipped pavement and café chatter. Bricks soaked in history and 3 a.m. cigarette ash. If you didn’t exist, someone would have had to invent you—if only to give people like me a place to spiral romantically.
You hold my contradictions like tramlines:
the boy who wants to leave
and the man who secretly hopes he never does.
The world is burning. I have wrinkles now (maybe). My novel is half-baked. The planet spins, and empires keep playing chess with our bones.
But I’m still here.
Still writing.
Still aching.
Still reaching.
So maybe aging isn’t just the weight of sameness.
Maybe it’s knowing exactly what hasn’t changed—and trying anyway.
There’s a woman who sells fruit on the corner near my apartment—always there, rain or shine, behind a table draped in faded fabric and something close to grace. I don’t know where she gets them, but her mandarins are criminally good. The kind that feel like a secret. Sun-warmed, sharp and sweet, like they were grown in a garden that doesn't show up on any map.
She never acknowledges me. Not really. A nod, maybe. Sometimes a grunt. I don’t think she knows my name, and I’m too shy to ask hers.
But then one week—
She was gone.
Just… gone.
No crates. No scent of citrus wafting down the street. I imagined the worst. Maybe she got sick. Maybe the city finally snuffed out her little stand. I worried like you do when someone becomes part of your routine without asking. Like a stray comma you’d miss if it vanished from your favorite sentence.
Two weeks later, she returned.
Strawberries now. Lush and bruised and real. The kind that melt on your tongue and stain your fingers red like summer’s opening act. I almost cried. Which felt insane, but also perfectly right.
Because sometimes, it's the small things that anchor you.
A woman with fruit.
A routine you didn’t know you needed.
Proof that the world still spins kindly, even when it doesn’t feel like it.
And now—God help me—I get excited about kitchen appliances.
My mother gave me a microwave the other day. Just handed it over like a practical offering from one era of adulthood to another. I unwrapped it and nearly burst into tears.
Not because it’s fancy (it isn’t). Not because I needed one (I did). But because it felt like a milestone no one prepares you for. Like: Here, you’re old enough now to heat your leftovers with a little dignity.
It’s funny. You spend your teenage years dreaming of escape, of revolution, of cities with better lighting. And then suddenly you're standing in your tiny kitchen, cradling a microwave, thrilled to reheat soup without using the stove.
That’s adulthood, isn’t it?
Mandarins.
Strawberries.
Appliances that make you weep.
And the quiet realization that—yeah, life’s fucking nice sometimes.
I turned 25.
And let’s be real—life is goddamn awful sometimes.
Groceries are a luxury. Rent is a gamble. If I get sick, that’s it. Game over. No second chances, no soft landings. Just me, a stack of unpaid bills, and a browser history full of "how to treat [insert symptom] at home."
It’s exhausting.
It's humiliating.
It's the kind of slow-burning panic you learn to dress in irony and carry like a handbag.
But also…
Life is good.
Not always. Not enough.
But sometimes, in flickers and fragments—it is.
It’s mandarins from a nameless woman who sells them like they’re sacred.
It’s a microwave from your mother that makes you cry.
It’s the stupid thrill of perfect strawberries in April, and the way your city exhales at golden hour like it’s forgiving you for something you didn’t know you did.
I think about leaving sometimes.
Starting over somewhere quieter. Cheaper. Kinder.
But then I picture the tram lines. The graffiti. The weird guy with the accordion who plays "Wonderwall" on Tuesdays. I picture the fruit stand. The skyline. The smell of this city when it rains.
And I know:
I’d miss it too much.
So I stay.
For now.
For the possibility that things could get better—not because they will, but because sometimes they do.
The Quiet Unraveling: Navigating Complacency, Consumerism, and the Search for Meaning in a Fractured World
Let’s begin with a confession: None of us are innocent here. We’re all tangled in the same messy web of contradictions—yearning for purpose while numbing ourselves with distractions, craving justice while clinging to comfort. This isn’t a condemnation; it’s an invitation to untangle the knots together. Because the truth is, the systems that suffocate us didn’t emerge in a vacuum. They grew from our collective fears, our exhaustion, and the very human desire to just make it through the day.
1. Complacency and Conformity: The Seduction of Safety
To understand complacency, we must first confront its seductive logic: Safety is not the absence of danger, but the illusion of control. We cling to routines, traditions, and systems not because we’re naive, but because the alternative—confronting the fragility of it all—feels paralyzing. Consider the factory worker clocking in for decades at a job that erodes their body, the student drowning in debt while chasing a degree they’re told will “guarantee stability,” or the parent who swallows their political disillusionment to avoid rocking the boat for their children. These aren’t failures of character; they’re rational responses to a world that punishes deviation.
Conformity is rarely about laziness—it’s about risk assessment. When the 2008 financial crisis wiped out pensions and homes, people didn’t suddenly rise up; they doubled down on “safe” choices. Why? Because rebellion is a luxury when you’re one missed paycheck from ruin. The gig economy epitomizes this: Workers accept exploitative conditions not because they lack ambition, but because algorithms dangle the carrot of “flexibility” while eroding labor rights. The message is clear: Play by the rules, or lose everything.
Even our language betrays this conditioning. We call nonconformists “idealists” or “radicals,” terms dripping with paternalism. Meanwhile, those who uphold the status quo are “practical” or “responsible.” This framing isn’t accidental—it’s cultural gaslighting. By equating compliance with maturity, systems ensure we police ourselves.
But safety is a mirage. For every person who “succeeds” by societal metrics, there are countless others crushed by the weight of unspoken compromises. Take the corporate ladder: Climbing it often demands silencing ethics (“Don’t ask about the offshore labor”), sacrificing health (“Sleep is for the weak”), and numbing creativity (“Follow the template”). We call this “success,” but it’s a pyrrhic victory—a life half-lived in exchange for a gold watch and a retirement plaque.
The toll isn’t just personal; it’s collective. Conformity sustains systems that harm us all. For example:
Environmental Collapse: We recycle dutifully while corporations lobby against climate policies, knowing our individual efforts are drops in an ocean of industrial waste.
Healthcare Inequity: Millions accept inadequate insurance plans because “that’s just how it is,” while pharmaceutical giants price-gouge life-saving medications.
Political Apathy: Voters settle for the “lesser evil” cycle after cycle, not because they’re apathetic, but because they’ve been conditioned to believe real change is impossible.
These aren’t signs of moral failure—they’re evidence of a rigged game. Systems thrive when we internalize their limitations as inevitabilities.
Breaking free doesn’t require grand gestures. It starts with questioning the stories we’ve been sold:
The Myth of Meritocracy: We’re told talent and grit guarantee success, yet study after study reveals wealth and connections matter most. Acknowledge this, and suddenly “laziness” looks more like exhaustion from running a race with no finish line.
The Cult of Busyness: Productivity culture equates self-worth with output. But what if we measured value in rest, creativity, or community care instead?
The Fear of “Otherness”: Conformity often masks a deeper fear—of being ostracized, of losing belonging. Yet some of history’s greatest shifts began with people who dared to be “weird”: LGBTQ+ activists, disability advocates, indigenous land defenders.
Resistance can be subtle:
A teacher who skirts standardized curricula to nurture critical thinking.
A nurse unionizing despite threats of retaliation.
A teenager rejecting hustle culture to prioritize mental health.
These acts aren’t glamorous, but they’re revolutionary because they reject the premise that this is all there is.
Education Systems: Schools often prioritize obedience over curiosity, training students to memorize answers rather than ask questions.
Media Narratives: News cycles reduce complex issues to binaries (left vs. right, “woke” vs. “anti-woke”), discouraging nuance.
Corporate “Wellness”: Companies offer yoga classes and mindfulness apps to placate burnout—a Band-Aid on a bullet wound—while ignoring demands for living wages or humane hours.
To dismantle this, we must name the forces at play. For instance, the bystander effect—a psychological phenomenon where individuals are less likely to act in a crisis when others are present—explains why we tolerate societal rot. If everyone’s silent, we assume someone else will speak. But when one person steps forward, it cracks the illusion of consensus.
What if safety wasn’t about clinging to the familiar, but about building systems that actually protect us? Imagine:
Economic Safety: Universal healthcare, living wages, and affordable housing so survival isn’t a daily gamble.
Emotional Safety: Cultures that prioritize mental health over performative hustle.
Intellectual Safety: Spaces where questioning norms is encouraged, not punished.
This isn’t utopian—it’s pragmatic. Complacency persists because we’ve been convinced alternatives are unrealistic. But every workers’ rights law, environmental regulation, and social safety net began as a “radical” idea.
2. Consumerism and Distraction: The Double-Edged Comfort
Let’s be honest: We’ve all soothed ourselves with the dopamine hit of an online purchase or lost hours to the algorithmic abyss of TikTok. Consumerism isn’t some moral failing; it’s a rational response to alienation. Under late-stage capitalism, where work is precarious, communities are fractured, and futures feel foreclosed, consumption becomes a perverse form of therapy. That new pair of shoes isn’t just a product—it’s a fleeting antidote to existential dread. The problem isn’t that we crave comfort; it’s that the system offers no other language for healing.
Capitalism manufactures scarcity—not just of resources, but of meaning. It tells us we’re incomplete without the latest gadget, that self-worth is tied to productivity, and that connection can be bottled and sold as a “wellness retreat.” Consider:
Fast Fashion: We buy cheap clothes to fill voids, knowing they’re stitched by underpaid workers in sweatshops. The cycle isn’t ignorance; it’s despair dressed as distraction.
Planned Obsolescence: Phones die after two years, appliances break just past warranty—a deliberate design to keep us chasing replacements. We’re not consumers; we’re hostages.
Digital Escapism: Social media algorithms feed us rage and envy because conflict drives clicks. We doomscroll not because we’re addicted, but because the “real world” offers little refuge.
This isn’t a coincidence—it’s by design. Late-stage capitalism thrives on perpetual dissatisfaction. It can’t survive if we’re content, connected, or politically engaged. So it commodifies our loneliness, monetizes our anger, and sells us bandaids for bullet wounds.
Blaming individuals for overconsumption is like blaming a fish for drowning. The real issue isn’t personal excess; it’s a system that requires excess to function. Capitalism’s growth imperative demands we extract, produce, and discard at accelerating rates—even if it means burning the planet. Consider:
Advertising’s Psychological Warfare: Corporations spend billions to manipulate our insecurities, convincing us happiness is a product. Socialism asks: What if we redirected those resources to universal mental healthcare instead?
The Time Poverty Trap: Overworked, underpaid people have little energy to cook, create, or connect. No wonder we UberEats dinner and binge Netflix—we’re exhausted. Socialism argues for shorter workweeks and living wages so we can reclaim time for what matters.
The Myth of “Ethical Consumption”: Boycotts and reusable straws are Band-Aids on a hemorrhage. You can’t “vote with your dollar” when billionaires own the ballot box. Socialism rejects market-based solutions and demands systemic change: Why not dismantle the structures forcing us to choose between survival and ethics?
Consumerism isn’t just about stuff—it’s about stifling dissent. The more time we spend curating online personas or hunting discounts, the less we have to organize, dream, or demand better. Late capitalism turns us into micro-managers of our own oppression, too busy comparing Spotify Wrapped stats to notice our pensions evaporating.
But distraction also serves a darker purpose: It atomizes us. Social media replaces solidarity with individualism (“Here’s 10 self-care tips for surviving burnout!”), while gig apps pit workers against each other for scraps. The result? A fractured populace, too isolated to challenge the oligarchs hoarding wealth.
Socialism, in contrast, centers collective power. It asks: What if we redirected the energy spent on Black Friday stampedes toward housing cooperatives? What if viral trends promoted mutual aid instead of hyper-consumption? Movements like tenant unions, community land trusts, and worker-owned businesses offer blueprints—not just for surviving capitalism, but dismantling it.
Dismantling consumerism isn’t about austerity; it’s about abundance. Imagine:
Universal Basic Services: Free healthcare, education, transit, and housing. When survival isn’t tied to wages, consumption loses its coercive power.
Democratic Workplaces: Worker cooperatives where employees own profits and set hours. Imagine producing goods for utility, not shareholder profit—no planned obsolescence, no exploitative ads.
Cultural Shift: Public spaces that prioritize community over commerce—libraries, parks, free theaters. Art funded for expression, not clicks.
This isn’t a utopia. Spain’s Mondragon Corporation, a federation of worker co-ops, employs 80,000 people with equitable wages. Finland’s housing-first policy slashed homelessness by treating shelter as a right, not a commodity. These models prove that when people control resources, they prioritize sustainability over growth for growth’s sake.
The socialist project isn’t about depriving joy—it’s about redefining it. Late capitalism reduces human complexity to “consumer” or “laborer.” Socialism asks: What if we valued people as creators, caregivers, and collaborators?
This means:
Dismantling the Attention Economy: Tax predatory algorithms. Fund public media free from ads. Let creativity flourish without surveillance.
Embracing Degrowth: Prioritizing well-being over GDP. A four-day workweek isn’t radical—it’s a return to pre-industrial rhythms where life wasn’t monetized.
Cultivating Collective Joy: Block parties over shopping sprees. Skill-sharing networks over Amazon. Grief circles over retail therapy.
Consumerism is a symptom of a deeper sickness: a world that treats humans as inputs and outputs. Socialism, at its core, is about healing that rupture—not through moralizing, but through solidarity.
Yes, we’ll still crave comfort. But what if comfort looked like a community garden instead of a McMansion? Like guaranteed healthcare instead of a “retail therapy” splurge? Like knowing your labor benefits neighbors, not CEOs?
The path forward isn’t shame. It’s building systems where our needs are met, our time is our own, and our worth is untethered from what we buy. Dismantling capitalism isn’t about losing luxuries—it’s about gaining freedom.
After all, the most radical act of defiance isn’t burning a mall. It’s imagining a world where we no longer need one.
3. Social and Political Awareness: The Weight of Witnessing
To bear witness to history is to carry its ghosts. It demands we confront not only the brutality of oppression but also the fragility of progress. From the civil rights movement to LGBTQ+ liberation, every stride toward justice has been met with backlash, erasure, and revisionism. Yet within this tension lies a truth: Awareness is not passive—it is a battleground
Programs designed to teach racial history—like Holocaust education, slavery museums, or Indigenous truth commissions—are often hailed as societal reckonings. But too often, they sanitize the past to soothe the present. For example:
The U.S. Civil Rights Movement: School curricula reduce Dr. King to a pacifist caricature, scrubbing his critiques of capitalism and militarism. Meanwhile, figures like Malcolm X or the Black Panthers are framed as “radicals,” their demands for systemic change diluted into soundbites.
South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission: While it exposed apartheid’s horrors, it prioritized forgiveness over reparations, leaving economic apartheid intact.
These programs risk becoming performative pedagogy, offering catharsis without accountability. True historical awareness isn’t about guilt—it’s about tracing the fingerprints of oppression to their source: Who still holds power? Who profits from forgetting?
The LGBTQ+ rights movement has always been rooted in trans and queer resistance—but you wouldn’t know it from mainstream narratives. Consider:
Stonewall (1969): Marsha P. Johnson, a Black trans woman, and Sylvia Rivera, a Latina trans activist, were instrumental in the riots. Yet for decades, cisgender gay white men were centered in commemorations. Even today, states like Florida ban discussions of gender identity in schools, erasing trans contributions to history.
The AIDS Crisis: Trans activists like Miss Major Griffin-Gracy and organizations like ACT UP fought for healthcare and dignity while governments ignored the deaths of thousands. Their legacy is often reduced to a red ribbon, stripped of its radical fury.
Modern Backlash: Anti-trans laws weaponize historical amnesia, framing trans existence as a “new trend.” But trans people have always existed—from Indigenous Two-Spirit communities to 19th-century queer liberationists like Karl Heinrich Ulrichs.
There is no LGBTQ+ without the T and Q. To exclude trans and queer stories is to amputate the movement’s heart
History’s greatest leaps forward were born not from polite debate but from collective rage. Examples abound:
Stonewall Riots (1969): Sparked modern LGBTQ+ activism. The first Pride was a riot, not a parade.
Compton’s Cafeteria Riot (1966): Led by trans women and drag queens in San Francisco, predating Stonewall.
Black Lives Matter (2013–present): Global protests after George Floyd’s murder forced reckonings on policing, with Minneapolis pledging to dismantle its police department (though progress remains contested).
The Arab Spring (2010–2012): Toppled dictators but also revealed the cost of revolution—hope tempered by backlash.
Farmers’ Protests in India (2020–2021): Millions forced the repeal of corporate farming laws, proving people power can outmuscle neoliberalism.
ACT UP’s “Die-Ins” (1980s–90s): AIDS activists stormed the NIH and St. Patrick’s Cathedral, shaming institutions into action.
These movements weren’t “peaceful”—nor should they have been. Justice is rarely granted; it’s seized.
South Africa’s Anti-Apartheid Movement: International boycotts and domestic uprisings dismantled legal segregation—but economic apartheid persists.
Ireland’s Marriage Equality Referendum (2015): Grassroots campaigns, led by groups like Yes Equality, made Ireland the first country to legalize same-sex marriage by popular vote.
Argentina’s Gender Identity Law (2012): Trans activists won the world’s most progressive gender self-determination policy, including free healthcare.
Sudan’s 2019 Revolution: Women and queer youth frontlined protests that ousted dictator Omar al-Bashir, despite ongoing violence.
These movements share a thread: Those most marginalized—trans people, Black women, poor farmers—often lead the charge, only to be sidelined when victories are claimed.
The Fight Against Erasure: How to Honor (and Continue) the Work
Teach Intersectional History: Highlight figures like Bayard Rustin (a gay civil rights organizer) or Stormé DeLarverie (a Black lesbian who sparked Stonewall).
Fund Grassroots Archives: Support projects like the Transgender Archives at the University of Victoria or the African American History Museum.
Amplify Living Histories: Listen to movements like Stop Cop City (Atlanta) or Youth v. Apocalypse (climate justice).
Reject Respectability Politics: Celebrate the “unruly” — the rioters, the occupiers, the ones who refuse to be palatable.
Awareness is not a museum exhibit—it’s a call to action. Every right we have—from marriage equality to voting access—was wrested from the jaws of power by those deemed “too loud,” “too angry,” or “too radical.” The backlash we see today—anti-trans laws, voter suppression, historical bans—is not a sign of defeat. It’s proof the powerful fear our memory.
So remember: When they erase trans pioneers from textbooks, teach them. When they whitewash slavery, revolt. When they criminalize protest, organize. The weight of witnessing is heavy, but it is also a weapon. Wield it.
4. Breaking Free: The Messy Work of Awakening
Awakening is not a sudden epiphany but a slow, grinding unfurling—a reckoning with the layers of denial, distraction, and dissonance that shroud our lives. It begins in the quiet moments when the scripts we’ve been handed—work, consume, repeat—start to fray at the edges, revealing the hollow core beneath. The weight of complacency, once a familiar burden, becomes intolerable. The distractions that once numbed us—the endless scroll, the curated personas, the ritualized consumption—now feel like ill-fitting costumes. This is the ache of awakening: the visceral understanding that the safety we’ve clung to is a mirage, and the world we’ve accepted is a gilded cage.
The journey is fraught with psychological landmines. Cognitive dissonance erupts as we confront the chasm between our values and our actions. We’ve been conditioned to equate conformity with survival, to mistake busyness for purpose, and to rationalize injustice as inevitability. To question these narratives is to invite a storm of existential anxiety—What if I’m wrong? What if I lose everything? The fear is primal. Our brains, wired for pattern recognition and predictability, revolt against the uncertainty of change. We cling to the devil we know, even when it devours us. This is the paradox of awakening: To break free, we must first sit in the discomfort of knowing we’ve been complicit, that our silence funded systems we despise, that our distractions were collaborators in our own erasure.
Yet this pain is not punishment—it’s alchemy. It’s the friction required to transmute guilt into accountability, passivity into action. Consider the suffocating grip of consumerism, where every purchase is a tiny rebellion against emptiness. We’ve been taught to medicate loneliness with products, to substitute material accumulation for meaning. But awakening demands we ask: What am I truly hungry for? The answer is rarely a thing. It’s connection—to ourselves, to others, to a world beyond the transactional. It’s the longing to create rather than consume, to belong rather than perform. This shift is seismic. It requires rewiring neural pathways forged by decades of capitalist conditioning, where self-worth is tied to productivity and joy is commodified.
The process mirrors the collective struggles etched into history. The civil rights activists who faced fire hoses and jail cells, the LGBTQ+ pioneers who rioted at Stonewall, the Black Lives Matter protestors who turned grief into global mobilization—they too grappled with the terror of rupture. Their awakenings were not pristine moments of clarity but messy, iterative acts of courage. They carried the weight of knowing their fight might outlive them, that progress could be reversed, that erasure was a constant threat. Yet they chose to disrupt the trance, to risk their safety for a future they might never see. Their legacy is a testament to the unbearable cost of staying asleep—and the transformative power of refusing to look away.
Awakening, then, is both personal and collective. It’s the recognition that our individual liberation is bound to the liberation of others. The systems that profit from our complacency—the same ones that erase trans voices, exploit workers, and plunder the planet—rely on our isolation. They thrive when we internalize shame, when we believe our smallness is inevitable. But solidarity cracks this illusion. When we join movements like the Fight for $15 or the resistance against anti-trans legislation, we tap into a lineage of defiance that stretches from the suffragettes to Standing Rock. We realize our power is not in perfection but in persistence—in showing up, flawed and furious, to chip away at the edifice of oppression.
The path is neither linear nor guaranteed. There will be days when the pull of the old life is seductive, when the news cycle’s horrors tempt us to retreat into numbness. Awakening is not purity; it’s resilience. It’s the queer teen who survives conversion therapy and becomes an advocate, the burned-out worker who organizes a union despite retaliation, the privileged ally who confronts their own complicity and redistributes resources. It’s the understanding that every small act of resistance—a difficult conversation, a boycott, a vote—is a thread in the tapestry of change.
And here, in the marrow of the struggle, lies the redemption: Awakening gifts us our humanity. The numbness that once shielded us from pain also barred us from joy. The distractions that anesthetized us stifled our creativity. The conformity that promised safety suffocated our authenticity. To break free is to reclaim the full spectrum of being—to feel rage and hope, grief and solidarity, not as weaknesses, but as proof of aliveness. It’s to trade the shallow comfort of the status quo for the messy, magnificent work of building something new.
The road is long, and the dawn may seem distant. But history whispers to us: Every riot, every strike, every act of defiance mattered. They shifted the axis of the possible. Your awakening, however stumbling, is part of that lineage. It’s worth the fight—not because victory is guaranteed, but because the alternative is a life half-lived. The cage door was never locked. It only felt that way. Step out. Breathe. Join the chorus of those who refuse to let the world sleepwalk into ruin. The cost is everything. The reward is a world remade.
5. A Path Forward: Gentleness as Rebellion — And the Question That Haunts Us All
In a world that equates strength with domination and progress with relentless grind, gentleness is an act of defiance. It’s a refusal to replicate the cruelty of systems that demand we harden ourselves to survive. Gentleness is not passivity; it’s the quiet, radical work of tending to the fractures—in ourselves, in each other, in the brittle scaffolding of a society teetering on collapse. It’s the factory worker who carves out time to mentor a younger colleague despite the assembly line’s unrelenting pace. It’s the student drowning in debt who still shows up to a climate strike. It’s the exhausted parent who, instead of scrolling, asks their child, “What hurts?” and truly listens. These acts seem small against the roar of injustice, but they are the antidote to the poison of isolation that late-stage capitalism brews.
Gentleness threads through every struggle we’ve named: It’s the complacent worker who risks vulnerability to unionize, knowing retaliation looms. It’s the consumer who opts out of Black Friday to repair a frayed friendship. It’s the activist who trades performative outrage for patient community-building. It’s the awakened soul who forgives their own complicity long enough to keep fighting. This is how we dismantle the myth that change requires heroes. It doesn’t. It requires humans—messy, tender, persistent—who refuse to let the world’s callousness become their own.
History’s loudest revolutions were born from gentleness disguised as ferocity. The Black Lives Matter marchers who handed out water and masks amid tear gas. The AIDS caregivers who held the dying when governments looked away. The LGBTQ+ elders who offered spare couches to queer kids cast out by families. These were not just acts of resistance; they were acts of love, a word too often sanitized into meaninglessness. Real love is inconvenient. It demands we redistribute resources, dismantle hierarchies, and prioritize care over growth. It means seeing the migrant detained at the border, the trans teen disowned by relatives, the overworked single parent, and whispering: “Your struggle is mine.”
But love alone is not enough. Gentleness must be coupled with the unflinching question that Martin Niemöller etched into history’s conscience:
First they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Communist...
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak out.
Today, the “they” is not a faceless regime but the logic of disposability that lurks in all of us. It’s the algorithms that dehumanize Palestinians as collateral, the lawmakers who erase trans lives from textbooks, the corporations that sacrifice Indigenous land for lithium mines. Every time we look away—because the news is too heavy, the guilt too sharp, the risk too great—we rehearse Niemöller’s lament.
So I leave you with this: When the algorithms scrub marginalized voices from platforms, when the laws criminalize protest, when the climate crisis swallows the Global South first—who will you fight for? And when the gears of greed and bigotry finally grind toward your door, who will be left to fight for you?
The answer lies in the gentleness we cultivate now. In the connections we nurture, the stories we preserve, the solidarity we practice before the storm arrives. Revolutions are not won in the streets alone. They’re won in the moments we choose tenderness over apathy, courage over comfort, and collective survival over solitary survival.
When they come for you—and they will—who will speak?
Will it be anyone at all?
"smut", censorship & why we must defend the freedom to read
Every era polices its stories. Today, the battleground is digital: TikTok, Twitter, and Tumblr simmer with moral panics over “problematic” fiction. At the heart of this debate lies a paradox: in an age that champions individuality and free expression, why are readers—particularly women and queer communities—increasingly shamed for enjoying narratives labeled “dark romance,” “smut,” or “spicy”? These terms, weaponized as shorthand for “morally bankrupt,” obscure a deeper cultural anxiety: the fear of stories that center taboo desires, power dynamics, or unapologetic female agency. What begins as criticism of tropes often escalates into demands for censorship, blurring the line between discourse and dogma. The stakes here transcend genre—this is about who gets to control narratives, and why.
Censorship has always targeted the marginalized. In the 19th century, novels like Madame Bovary and Lady Chatterley’s Lover were deemed “obscene” for depicting female desire outside patriarchal norms. By the mid-20th century, paperback romances adorned with shirtless heroes (think Fabio rescuing a swooning heroine) dominated bookstore racks. These novels were dismissed as frivolous “chick lit,” relegated to the realm of harmless escapism. Yet they sold millions, offering women a rare space to claim ownership of their fantasies.
Fast-forward to today. Their spiritual successors—stories exploring BDSM, morally gray relationships, or trauma—face a more insidious suppression: algorithmic shadow-banning, deplatforming, and viral callout campaigns that frame readers as complicit in harm. The shift from physical book burnings to digital erasure reflects a new puritanism, one couched in progressive language but rooted in the same paternalism: “These ideas are too dangerous for you.” Platforms like TikTok, which amplify outrage for engagement, reduce complex narratives to soundbite controversies. A single trope—a mafia romance’s nonconventional relationship, a bully romance’s power imbalance—is stripped of context, becoming fodder for hashtag activism. Lost in this frenzy is the distinction between depiction and endorsement, between art and advocacy.
Critics of dark romance often argue, “These stories normalize abuse!” Yet this concern is selectively applied.
Consider:
Male-Centric Media: Films like Fight Club (domestic terrorism, toxic masculinity) and The Sopranos (misogyny, murder) are analyzed as “complex art.” Video games like Grand Theft Auto let players enact mass violence, yet their audiences aren’t accused of glorifying crime.
Queer and Feminist Narratives: Stories by marginalized authors—e.g., Carmilla (lesbian vampirism) or Tampa (female predator tropes)—face disproportionate scrutiny. Their themes are pathologized, their audiences interrogated.
This double standard reveals a cultural discomfort with women and queer people claiming narrative autonomy. Dark romance, often written by and for women, subverts the “pure heroine” archetype, allowing characters—and readers—to explore rage, desire, and imperfection. To dismiss these stories as “toxic” is to deny women the right to messy, multifaceted representation.
Fiction is a laboratory for the human experience. Psychologists argue that dark themes in art serve as simulations, letting readers safely confront fears, taboos, or repressed emotions. A 2019 study in Psychology of Aesthetics found that readers of transgressive fiction often engage in more ethical reasoning, not less, as they analyze characters’ choices.
Consider the appeal of dark romance:
Agency in Restriction: Heroines navigating oppressive worlds (e.g., mafia romances) often reclaim power within constraints, mirroring real struggles against systemic misogyny.
Catharsis Through Hyperbole: Exaggerated tropes (obsessive love, revenge plots) externalize internalized emotions, offering emotional release.
Censoring such works doesn’t protect readers—it infantilizes them, implying they can’t separate fiction from reality.
History shows that censorship rarely stops at “protecting” audiences. Once normalized, it expands to suppress dissent:
1980s “Satanic Panic”: Moral crusades against Dungeons & Dragons and heavy metal music targeted countercultural communities.
2020s Book Bans: U.S. schools have banned texts like Gender Queer and The Hate U Give, conflating LGBTQ+ and anti-racist narratives with “obscenity.”
Calls to censor smut follow the same playbook: frame subjective discomfort as objective harm, then demand removal “for the greater good.” But who decides what’s “harmful”? Algorithms? Politicians? Corporations? Amazon’s arbitrary delisting of LGBTQ+ romance novels in 2021 (“content violations”) proves corporate censorship is already here—and it’s arbitrary.
To censor “smut” is to endorse a world where stories are policed by the timid, the authoritarian, or the algorithm. It undermines foundational principles:
Freedom of Literature: Art is not a public service announcement. It must be free to provoke, unsettle, and challenge.
Reader Autonomy: Trust adults to choose their media. Advocacy for content warnings and nuanced critique is valid; eradication is not.
Media Pluralism: A free society requires diverse narratives—including those deemed uncomfortable, “immoral,” or politically inconvenient.
The fight against censorship isn’t about defending specific tropes; it’s about resisting the idea that any story is “too dangerous” to exist. As Salman Rushdie wrote, “What is freedom of expression? Without the freedom to offend, it ceases to exist.” Let readers revel in their smut, their Shakespeare, their sapphic space operas. Let them dissect, debate, or devour stories without shame.
The alternative—a sanitized, homogeneous cultural landscape—is a far darker tale.
Defend the right to read. Defend the freedom to imagine. And never apologize for the stories that make us human.
Oh, I can already hear the chorus of outraged patriots clutching their flags and gasping for air, wondering how on earth I have the audacity to say it out loud. But let’s be honest here—America died a very public, very embarrassing death, and we all watched it happen. It was sentenced to death at 1 AM on November 5th, 2024, beheaded at noon on January 20th, 2025, and, in a spectacle fitting for the end of a grand empire, the victors danced around its lifeless corpse on January 21st, mocking it in perfect synchrony.
Now, before you start shaking your head at the “insanity” or “cynicism” of that statement, take a nice, long look around. Everything we once believed in—democracy, freedom, the pursuit of happiness—has been carted off to the highest bidder. Billionaires decided that profit was worth more than human life, and somehow, the rest of us naïve peasants stood around and let them do it. Isn’t that just adorable?
I’ll spare you the poetic eulogies and patriotic tears because, quite frankly, they’re wasted on a corpse that’s no longer even warm. The world we cared for, the world we tried to save for our children, has been neatly packaged and sold off to the oligarchs who’ve gleefully hung a “Welcome to our Empire” banner on the front door. We’re living in a reality where democracy is now a quaint idea you might reminisce about in your next social media post—assuming you haven’t already had your account banned for daring to be “disruptive.”
But don’t worry, it’s not just America that got the axe; the entire world’s on this same unsteady track. Everywhere you look, the crumbling veneer of “for the people” has chipped away, revealing the real puppet masters tugging at our strings. They exploit our hopes, our fears, our addictions—whatever it takes to keep us clicking, swiping, and spending, until we’re all too exhausted to care.
And the best part? When we finally figure out that the people no longer hold the power—that we’re essentially serfs in a digital feudal system—maybe then we’ll realize there’s no profit when there are no longer people. Imagine that: you spend all this time building an empire, only to discover your empire is worthless without the very consumers you’ve systematically drained of resources.
So here we are, rummaging through the ruins of a once-idealized nation, a once-idealized world, trying to piece together some shred of dignity. Frankly, it’s laughable—if it weren’t so tragic. Our leaders have effectively sold our future for pocket change, and we’re left with rigged systems and hollow speeches. It’s as though we’re the star attraction in an absurd play where the final act is a funeral dirge for the idea of freedom itself.
But please, don’t get sentimental. There’s no room for nostalgia when the victors are busy dancing on the corpse, flinging confetti made of shredded constitutions and worthless promises. They’re having a grand old time, and who can blame them? They got exactly what they wanted: unchecked power, obscene wealth, and a global stage to flaunt it on.
In a world that has been murdered for profit, I suppose the only solace we can take is that maybe, just maybe, when everything collapses, the oligarchs won’t have anyone left to exploit. But hey, I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that day to come—these folks are terrifyingly resourceful when it comes to sustaining their blood-sucking empires.
So, rest in pieces, America. I’m sure the oligarchs will give you a lovely eulogy at your unceremonious funeral—if they can pause their celebratory jig long enough to deliver it. As for the rest of us? Well, we’ll be here, wondering what could have been, had we not welcomed the power-hungry elite with open arms. Maybe in the next world, we’ll do better. Or maybe we’ll just dance along, too. Who knows? After all, it’s much easier to join the mocking victors than to stand against them.
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