Cracking at the end of 2024: I am disturbed and discomforted

Warning: A bit of a rant here with no real aim, message or call to action. Bad comms follows!…

What if, in 2025, we decided to break open these digital spaces we inhabit, along with the physical ones? What if we stopped recycling the same tired, junkyard statements—those hollow mantras about how “we’re running out of time” or how “we must act now”? What if, instead, we allowed ourselves to ask the bold, bloody questions that make us squirm with discomfort? The kinds of questions that take root, deep in the marrow of unease.

Questions like: How could we die well as a species?

Questions like: What would it mean to rot? What would it mean to ferment?

Or: How might we embrace death and then smoke it like a cigarette, exhale it, watch new life curl out like tendrils of smoke from our lips?

These aren’t questions designed for professional social media posts or policy briefs. They are wild, unruly questions, the kind that unsettle the foundations of plasterboard rooms where grey conversations echo into watercooler silence. And perhaps, dear reader, this blog has become my space for such meanderings—for loose threads and strange trajectories. If so, I apologise, or perhaps I don’t.

Because, truthfully, I am weary. Weary of bland, tasteless conversations held in rooms that smell faintly of feet and quiet desperation. Weary of trying not to interrupt, trying not to disrupt, trying to drain the last of the stale water from a chugging dispenser without anyone noticing. Weary of LinkedIn badges, klout, or making my CV better.

And here’s the thing: I don’t even have an answer right now to any of this. I just know I don’t want to sit in any more people-pleasing meetings about the climate and nature crisis, patting myself on the back for doing nothing. I don’t want to keep showing up as though I can solve this without being better in touch with myself—as a wild being. I might come back and read this blog later and feel embarrassed. Maybe it’s coherent. Maybe it sounds a bit unhinged. But honestly? I want to be unhinged. Being hinged is getting me nowhere.

We aren’t getting where we need to be fast enough.

And yet, we aren’t slowing down enough to even see where we are.

We aren’t pausing.

Pausa.

We need prophets now. Not polite ones with prepared talking points. Not prophets dressed in suits or armed with slide decks. We need prophets of discomfort. People willing to flick the lights so high that the electricity hums and cracks like fireflies trapped in our bones. Where are you prophets? Please, where are you?

What is Inter.Generationality, really? Is it just generations politely coming together over tea and PowerPoint ? Or is it the raw, aching realisation that we are already bound together? That the threads of past, present, and future are tangled so tightly that to pull at one is to tug at them all?

This isn’t about “bringing people together.” It’s about seeing that we already are.