If I wanted to play the role of a pissed old fart, I’d say the world’s gone to hell and there’s no way back. But it’s not like that.

Yes, babies are being born with microplastics in their blood. Synthetic memory. Proof that even the most sacred places aren’t spared. But there are thousands of other issues in this world no one really cares about—unless you’re a deeply traumatized Greta Thunberg, shouting environmental warnings into the TikTok void. Was it better back then, when kids were born at home—and without microplastics? Maybe. Maybe not.

The only thing I know is that music in the '90s used to rattle in your chest, not just your wireless earbuds. Listening at Barnes & Noble over headphones, trying to hear through the plastic case. That same CD is scratched to hell today but still playable. You didn’t stream it. You hunted it down, waited for it, saved for it. It was work. And it mattered.

Very little was clean. Photos caught people mid-blink, red‑eyed and real. No filters. Burned discs failed halfway through the last track. But those mistakes had fingerprints. Now? Smooth edges. Minimal drag. No dirt. Things glide. They forget you quickly.

Some kids dig into old machines—manual typewriters, dusty vinyl, clunky cameras. Not because it’s cute or ironic. Because they’re starving for weight. For noise that means something. For proof they exist in a moment, not just in someone else’s highlight reel. They don’t want filters. They want friction.

Love came in envelopes. Crushed corners. Run‑on sentences. Coffee stains. Bad spelling. The words hit different when the sender lingered on the page. Now it’s voice notes and gray text bubbles and emoticons—quick, disposable, gone by lunch. No rereading years later. Nothing to hold when you’re falling apart.

And it shows. Mental health issues have surged sharply: globally, anxiety increased by about 26% and depression by around 28%—mostly during the pandemic. People say they’re more connected, but many can’t remember the last time someone really looked at them. They scroll until their thumbs go numb. They post. Pose. Delete. Repeat. Then wonder why it all feels fake.

My grandmother used to say, “Have a piece of chocolate to wrap your nerves.” It was her way of slowing things down, of pausing before the next thing hit. That pause is gone now.

The speed of life is a killer. Everything’s accelerating—messages, updates, expectations, reactions. You’re not allowed to process anymore. Just absorb, adjust, keep up. Sleep gets hacked. Meals happen while walking. Rest feels like a guilty indulgence. Even silence gets filled.

Your body can evolve. Your nervous system can adapt. But your soul? It breaks. Quietly. Repeatedly. It’s not built for a world that moves faster than a heartbeat. It’s too painful to witness constant motion with no room to land, no place to exhale. Eventually, the soul gives up—not loudly, but slowly. And by the time you notice, there’s nothing left to feel.

There’s anger under the surface. Not the kind that explodes—the kind that settles like rust. A quiet ache that something got stolen. And most people can’t name what it was—just that something essential isn’t there anymore.

Some reach back—not to rewind, but to bleed honestly. A letter that rambles. Film that blurs. Stuff that fights perfection and feels like life again. Stuff that breaks and doesn’t update itself. Stuff that takes up space, that refuses to vanish when the power goes out.

This isn’t about hating tech or glorifying the past. It’s about recognizing the trade. At some point, ease beat memory. Smoothness beat soul. Convenience buried the mess—and with it, some of the proof that we were ever really here.

The raw things still exist. But clawing is the only way through now. Through noise. Through gloss. Through systems built to keep you scrolling instead of feeling. But they’re there—in the scratches, the slowness, the silence.

Not every process runs better efficient. Not every moment belongs digital. Some things earn the mess. Some things carry weight. Some things rot and stain and stretch before they mean anything.