Sunday, 16 February 2025
In my phone, hot boys with sweaty abs and toned pecs dance awkwardly in poorly lit kitchens. I wish I was there. The bad tattoos, not on leather-toned skin, but on middle-class ivory that has been marinated far too long in the British summer, undulate. The garish neo-tribals move and bop around a table where a shattered laptop stands. Someone probably dropped something (or themselves) onto the table, and the DJ got furious, and a computer was destroyed as collateral damage. The fractured screen catches the light of a distant living room, reflecting the chaos around it.

I too, want to demolish laptops on Sunday mornings. I want to feel the crunch beneath my feet.
Some nights, I can sense the city alive. Electric energy coursing through the air. I cannot explain it. I tell my friends, repeatedly; “The city is electric today. Something wicked is happening, let’s dance.” And obviously, every single time, they give me a look—that familiar mix of concern and dismissal—and they move on with their lives. The most powerful weapon an artist possesses is the belief in themselves and in what they create. And when I say that, when I chant those things, I fully, truly, and honestly believe them. The conviction vibrates through me like bass through floorboards.

Poetry. I live in poetry and speak in metaphors. Okay, but I still yearn to dance over tables and stomp over laptops, hearing the keys pop beneath my dirty trainers.
Now I need to provide some context. Yesterday, I followed someone in the quest of buying hair dye on two different occasions. Not a problem—my creative process entails a lot of walking. I play videogames (which is writing), I go to the shop to get a little treat (which is writing) and I do other things (everything is writing).

I had an odd Sunday. And I trailed blindly in and out of a Gregg’s, in and out of the Superdrug. This person is somewhat stressing about their hair. Which amuses me, because I never cared about my hair. It simply exists, an extension of myself that I neither love nor hate.
In my phone, faceless men send brave messages that I choose to ignore. In a sea of advertisements, pop-ups bearing the name of Mr. Jeff Bezos sabotage my dreams of physical intimacy and spontaneous affairs. Although most of the time, I am the one who cannot tolerate the other men through the tiny black mirror. The posturing, the ridiculous and performative masculinity. The insufferable boys in my phone, flexing muscles that never become real.

What is real?

We never stress about what we feel confident about. We stress about what we loathe about ourselves. We stress about our dirty little secrets, the things that we are ashamed to confess even to our closest friends. This friend of mine kept rambling on and on evaluating the options, because apparently, they despised their hair in this moment. So, they were clearly spiraling, constantly debating (mainly with themselves) if they should have a haircut or not. When asked, I always told them to have the fucking haircut and move on. Something about constantly tiptoeing around a task that must be completed really gives me the ick. Must be my Spanish brain. British people adore to assess, to make choices upon choices, to research, to waffle on and hem and haw around.

Like, you have dyed your hair already, I gave you my advice, you gracefully declined, and this is why, the second time we went to Superdrug, I remained outside. And my friend took ages. Analyzing and overthinking too much probably, examining each shade as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

In my phone, people dance under the sun in Brazil. I am not sure if I want to be there or not, but I crave having the power or opportunity to go. I am perpetually exhausted; I never have money and I am angry. Someone said once, that if we are not angry it’s because we might not be paying attention. I think I am paying too much attention. I am furious towards digital nomads, resentful towards the 1%, I am bitter towards people who were exposed to better opportunities earlier than me. Seething towards those who work less than me and earn more. Their Instagram posts mock me with exotic locations and carefree smiles.

I put my phone away. I have been staring at my phone excessively. You know, doomscrolling through paradise. My hands are cold, because I have forgotten my gloves. Seven Sisters Road is buzzing. Nag’s Head market looks as busy as it gets, vendors calling out prices, shoppers haggling. But something catches my eye. Things are not only happening in my phone, but also in everyone else’s. Everyone is walking, shopping or waiting for the bus while fixated on their phone. And maybe this is me projecting (most likely), but everyone looked either angry or sad. Could be the gray skies, the freezing temperatures or the fact that I was aimlessly waiting outside of a Superdrug for the second time that day, but it felt palpable, this collective gloom.
It got me thinking.

BREAKING NEWS

We get angry through our phones; we get sad through our phones, and we perform for our phones. No one cares about who you are. Integrity doesn’t exist anymore, it’s all about the optics. As long as one appears impeccable in the little shiny square. It’s the optics, it’s all about the optics. I hate that, and it fills me with melancholy, this theatrical existence we’ve created for ourselves.

In my phone, a group of three girls are trying to cook pancakes hanging from the ceiling.

In my phone I discover a new cringe / VR account.

In my phone, I see other phones.