The remnants of party poppers lie scattered, half-empty glasses wait to be cleared, and the hazy memories of last night’s revelry already begin to blur. We gulp down a cocktail of hangover remedies, hoping to patch together some clarity. A collective breath is drawn—a mix of relief and exhaustion—as if the madness of the past four years might finally loosen its grip. Yet this morning feels unchanged, mirroring the day before. The same yawning chasm that haunted us then remains unbridged, and still, we dance around the fire that has consumed us.
We are mourning. Lost and confused, grasping for a sense of normality that slips through our fingers—unspoken, almost unspeakable—because those forces that shaped our world have clipped our words, our voices, our right to express freely.
‘They’—a shape-shifting specter, different for each of us—have molded us into self-imposed victims. Blame is cast outward, always someone else’s fault. But as the dust settles, and we stand solitary, the weight of accountability falls squarely on our shoulders. The pothole in the road, the endless waiting lists, the insecurity of zero-hour contracts, even the crooked bananas on the shelf—we face these realities now, with no one else to blame.
Today, we stand, chest puffed against the cold wind, alone. But the turmoil of these past years was a symptom, not the root. And last night’s fleeting celebration—no matter how loud—was never the cure.
Irregular Frequencies 