2016?

a chilly mid morning rant, a taylor swift playlist and a repulsion for the newly found archaic sense of nothingness.

it's 2016, they said. not the books, the instagram reels that are known to throw me into a paradox of spiralling into a person i never was, but the algorithm won't stop till I do. all of us are subtle schizophrenics, because meta(hell no) wants us to be.

if it's 2016, im streaming taylor swift and alan walker, watching people post Closer by Chainsmokers ft Halsey lyrics, ardently insulting and berating the twilight fandom like my life depends on it, snorting through John Green, betting on who can read the entirety of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child in record time, sketching and doodling my heart out not knowing it'll never happen again, reading wimpy kid and Eric Hanson day in and day out, maintaining and shredding dear diaries, scandalising my friends by telling them JK Rowling wrote The Casual Vacancy, living under the One Direction reunion delusion and coping with it because of a 5 Seconds of Summer addiction, binge watched VH1, listening to music on Google Play Music, using Clean Master, being an absolute sucker for songs I didn't feel enough for and ensuring I spend ever recess in the most sunny spot because UV rays are a myth and im comfortable in trinkets of a monotone wardrobe.

On the surface, peak anti social pop culture life was lived in 2016, but it seeped in lessons and conscience that I walked into 2026 with. I can't write without taylor swift playing in the background, I can't, for the life of me remember any other year that taught me how to be a friend, and how not to. i can't write without the pictures of certain faces and pages. i can't write without a sense of heaviness and hue. till date, my ink doesn't smudge and spill the way it did pre 2023. my ink freely bled, now it scatters at the mere sight of scathing, struggling words. i abhor pressing backspace, and i don't remember doing so, until the saturation of information bled over my comfort with words.

The algorithm shoving down the last decade down my throat is not a trip down the memory lane, it's a trip down every author and every person we would've been. Every battle which as a teenager you're too tolerant to reveal but too exhausted to not. Not every battle is about a raging set of 75 questions to set you for life, some of them are about the will to make it to the 75 questions, questioning if you'll be breathing, about small consumable capsules you escaped the reeking repulsion of sharing with, until everything overflowed. I miss the "would've could've should've" of this lifetime, of the past decade, everything i lost, and the peoole, who i hope never come across the existence of this blog, wishing to echo words under the same moonlight, tear pages and stitching some back.

If we're living under the paradox of being seen but fearing being known, retreating as a reflex everytime something seems in a closer proximity to feel safe, it's probably a sign to go back to 2016, scream fuck dopamine and live the decade feeling organic in our outfits, books, blankets, food and music. the only walls we ever build, should be those of who never saw the light of our spams before us.

Until the next chilly mid morning rant, with a taylor swift playlist and a repulsion for the newly found archaic sense of nothingness.

<3