No doubt there’s doubts. It’s just too real. There’s just too much noise. Not enough headspace to look for reassurance while you are busy keeping your head above the overwhelming swell of megalomaniacs, narcissists and soul destroying news.

Say, you have written a short novel.

Say, you are in your late thirties. Say, you are not a public figure, haven’t won any writing competitions. Just learned to make some okay money as a copywriter – advertising products, services, making sure, clients are represented in the right words. You know you are always competing with younger professionals, those who grew up with a phone in their hand, doing it for less money. Having mastered the art of living with your artificial writing buddy, though you know it might one day rip out the ground beneath your feet, outbid you in this auction of an attempt for a decent living.

It wasn’t your first choice. In a very different life you were meant to be a journalist. A good one even. One, that flies around the world, telling stories of people who need someone to know about their existence. That was before it dawned on you that you might be the one struggling to exist in this new age. You still care about what’s right and what’s wrong. Deeply. But it got too loud, voices overlapping, stories misinterpreted, constructed. It all got blurred – hard to tell the real from the surreal, hard to spot the imposters, posing just for attention.

Journalism stripped bare, meaning sucked out of it like blood streaming from a freshly slaughtered animal. It made sense to you once. It provided a solution to human mess. An answer, a chance to ask real questions. A heroic idea of hunting down the truth. A chance to make sense out of senseless human flaws, obvious mistakes and painful contradictions. Suddenly you could imagine a whole new version of yourself. A stronger version of yourself. You knew you had to try and seek truth.

You knew the stakes were high.

Who could have predicted, the whole world would turn upside down within 10 of your most important years. Obviously you could have still pursued it. Tried swimming against a rising tide, following a version of yourself that slowly started fading into the distant past. Your idea of journalism was instantly out of date. So here we are. In a world where anyone capable of using a smartphone and creating a social media account, sending out some ideas on life, could theoretically call themselves some form of journalist – a blogger, an influencer. A creator.

What’s the point in trying?

How fast we get deprived of depth. Tiredly forced by the same old same old. Millions of pictures and videos, words, flashing before our eyes. Twitching, aching to get nurtured, to receive more nutritional stuff to revive our starving souls.

You want a solution again. An answer to your questions. Unsatisfied and wasted away. You don’t need anyone telling you it will all be alright. You need something real. And you start looking for those tiny fragments of light breaking through the network. A small stream of quiet voices, a whisper really, of a new hope. Others who are starting to reclaim their minds. Starting to listen to the wind, the rain and hoping to find a relief. Another answer to yet another human mess we find ourselves in.

This time journalism might not be your best answer. It might just be much more existential. It might just be all of us. Finding a way back to community. Stripping it all back. Finding real peace of mind. Shutting out voices full of doubt and destruction. Seeking kindness and friendship and using creative thought to recharge your batteries that have been dangerously low for way too long.

How strange to think it could all be that simple. Have a cup of tea. Listen to the birds outside, watch a squirrel harvesting some nuts for winter.

After all, isn’t the fabric of life the fabric of all our lives?

(Everything on this Website is written by me. No bot involved.)