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.

We live in an era where talent is not enough. In fact, it might be a hindrance. Because while you were honing your craft, someone else was learning how to go viral. The algorithm doesn't want your genius, mate. It wants your pliability. Your photogenic smirk and ability to dance on cue. It wants quick cuts, controversy, and a hook in the first three seconds. Greatness needs time. The algorithm gives you milliseconds. It doesn't reward soul. It rewards sensation.

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.