The authentic voice of the streets is translated, captioned, polished until it can be dissected in Guardian think‑pieces, consumed by middle‑class voyeurs who treat our lives like edgy exhibits rather than lived realities. This is why we don’t step forward. Why we don’t submit our manuscripts or scripts. Because standing at the gates are the cultural custodians: well‑spoken, well‑heeled, Oxbridge‑seasoned.

Now everything is shit. Plastic and polished, predictable and soulless. Every song sounds like a template: click-track drums, a fake build, a drop made by some guy hunched over a laptop in a bedroom that smells like Monster Energy.

Power, fame, influence—each a drug, each corrupting faster than the last. We live in an age where grifters steal truth, sell it back as spectacle, and gaslight the masses with fake metrics. The circus of influence is here—and it feeds on your attention. Step outside the tent.

when your entire culture gets boiled down to a handful of clichés that fit neatly into an Englishman’s idea of Scotland.

This isn’t about some wanky 'journey' or 'manifesting your dreams' pish by thinking positive thoughts while doing fuck all

A Journey Through Neuroscience and Self-Discovery Blue Whale Thinking Let’s crack open the skull and rummage through the wires, shall we?...

Write. Journaling is a game-changer. Writing smooths out the rough edges in your subconscious, making the transition to the superconscious