A small thank you to Kai (@lifebykai), who collaborated on this piece with me. Her fun, enthusiastic energy and her drive to actually get us to finish it made all the difference. She has this way of pushing a piece forward exactly when it needs it, without ever losing the joy in doing it. This essay has more life in it, and more heart, because she was part of writing it. Grateful!

Kai: I hate living in the past, but for some reason whenever I'm wrapping a burrito or cleaning the kitchen, I always end up putting on old music. And no, I'm not talking about some random dandy man singing disney opera like rent is due tomorrow. I'm talking about the one, the only, Michael Jackson. (Disclaimer: This is not me drooling over a man. I'm just an average person... allegedly.)

Hear me out.

I can confidently say that sometimes it feels like every girl wants to be the next Sabrina Carpenter and every guy wants to be Harry Styles.  I really DON'T FEEL the blood, sweat, and tears of people who want to make something truly unforgettable. Now I’m not bashing said artists (please don't sue me) and I’m not saying there isn't incredible music today. Olivia Dean, H.E.R., RAYE, Drake, Kendrick Lamar... they've all made songs that resonate with millions. But it doesn't hit the same level.

Think about Michael Jackson for a second.

There was literally a time where a man. Single. Solo. Man. That sold over 400 million records—

*dj scratch* YES. YA’LL HEARD ME RIGHT!

400

MILLION

RECORDS

All without posting “Share link in bio 💖”

And he did all of that without Instagram. Without TikTok. Without YouTube. Without a single smartphone in the audience. Just radio. Newspapers. Television. MTV. Word of mouth. PEOPLE  in third world COUNTRIES probably knew about him! 

So how on EARTH! Does someone gain global popularity and world wide domination (of fans hearts) ?
Because it had SOUL. ART. and a fucking good sense of music (if we’re being honest) It’s hard to ignore such magnetism (and rizz) from a pure genuine blood 👏🏽 sweat 👏🏽 and tears! 👏🏽

And might I add—music (and film, honestly) used to be art. Not brainrot, something you listened to just because the room was too quiet, and definitely not something that was just made for a 5 second dance on tiktok.  Art.

Michael Jackson's Heal the World. Art.

Chaka Khan's Through the Fire. Art.

Prince's Purple Rain. Art.

Van Halen. Journey. Whitney Houston. Aretha Franklin. Ray Charles. Madonna. Queen.

These were songs that you played on REPEAT! These were songs that a 9-year-old you would sing in the backseat of the car pretending you’re in a music video. They became part of people's lives. They were sung at weddings, funerals, graduations, road trips, heartbreaks. Decades later, they're still being played by people who weren't even alive when they came out.

Jesus Christ—even Michael Jackson attracted crowds like Princess Diane. That's not normal. That's a group of people who truly appreciate 

Every. Single. Detail. 

Older songs had SOUL and you can almost feel the work behind it.These were songs that made you feel ALIVE! Made you want to stay in the car a bit longer just to have a solo karaoke moment. Songs that made your body jolt because you wanted to break out into dance. Or songs that you pretended to be sad with (because of the lack of drama in your everyday lives 🫠) 

But maybe that's what I crave the most. 

Not old music. Soul.

Because everything back then felt like it had one.

The songs had a heartbeat. The films had a heartbeat. Even the imperfections made them feel human. In a world full of fast food tunes and over-hyped movies I fear that we lack the very ESSENCE of what art SHOULD be.  Something to experience, not just something to make a trend of. 

But it does make me wonder...

Have we slowly lost our sense of art?

Did consumerism get to us? Did billion-dollar companies realize it was easier to sell something catchy than something meaningful? Or are we just walking around chasing an espresso shot's worth of dopamine, and we've forgotten what it feels like to sit with something that actually changes us?

The more I think about it... the more I realize this isn't just a music thing.

Music was just the first place I noticed it.

Because that same feeling follows me every time I walk into a movie theater.

** news anchor voice** And that's where Lisa's Diaries picks up the story!

Lisa: 

Kai says it louder than I ever could, but the ache underneath it is the same one I’ve been circling for a while now.

A few nights ago, my friend and I watched the new movie called The Housemaid. I’m sure you’ve heard of it — a TikTok-viral novel made into a TikTok-viral film. One thing I noticed from the very beginning was how quickly the story moved, how we were breezing through the shots so fast. It made me think: maybe this is because our attention spans have shortened, and now movies have to fly through scenes instead of lingering in them. And really, picking up on Kai’s piece above, I realize we live in a different universe to the one she describes.

Most films and songs today are driven by revenue and financial viability rather than the impact of art. In this reality, the decision on whether the movie/music album idea is realised is relied upon whether the producers see the chance to make profit rather than release a meaningful piece of art. Sure, it’s great when the two can have an impactful marriage — create buzz and cash for the producers. But in that, a part of what I reminisce is lost. 90s and early 2000s movies were made with the full intention of presenting art and competing for the audience through soul and heart, rather than through the pocket, or through the lens of what would satisfy the masses. That’s what we have here with The Housemaid.

If we recall the films that soulfully made such big impacts on the history of visual media, we think of movies like When Harry Met Sally, Good Will Hunting, Dead Poets Society (or any Robin Williams film, honestly). None of them needed a twist. No shock factor, no trauma reveal in act three or lightning-fast scenes. They just let you sit with people talking, and somehow that was all that was required to capture the audience. Strong acting performances didn’t have to have a $20 million budget to wow. Maybe that’s the part we’ve actually lost. The patience to sit with things and the patience to allow ourselves to feel. 

The world of cocomelon, minions and sped-up shorts on YouTube doesn’t allow for any emotional response, thought-provoking or sitting with feelings. What it does allow and needs to allow for is the shortened attention span we now have. It doesn’t dare to bore us because then we are lost as a ‘potential viewer’. 

Maybe that's the real thing I'm mourning when I say I miss the 90s. Not the fashion or the flip phones, not even the movies and albums themselves. But the version of us that still knew how to sit still. The 90s and early 2000s weren't perfect. But they gave art room to breathe, and they gave us room to actually feel it before scrolling to the next thing as soon as we had the urge. We didn't need a plot twist to stay in our seats or a viral sound bite to hit replay. We just needed something authentic and gripping. So maybe this isn't nostalgia for a decade at all. Maybe it's grief for our own attention, for the patience we used to have and somehow let get sold off in five-second increments. And if that's true, then the fix isn't going backwards.  It is remembering that we're allowed to slow down today as well. To sit with a song until it becomes part of us again and to let a film linger and to choose soul over speed, even in 2026. Because maybe art didn’t disappear, maybe our relationship with it did. 

So I'll leave you with this: when's the last time you let a song or a movie just sit with you until it actually changed something in you?

It’s 5:46am and I am standing at the bus stop. The air is freezing (even though we are in Sydney, Australia!) since it’s the middle of the winter and I am covered in multiple layers of sweaters and jackets. My head is spinning as I am deeply hungover, working off of 4 hours of sleep. It’s my second year of university and I am living in the dorm on the campus. The walk between the bus stop and my house is about 15 minutes and if I miss this bus, I will miss my shift. Where am I headed? To my job at the farmers markets about 20 suburbs away, a cash job I got a year prior. Every Saturday and Sunday, rain or shine, hungover after a huge college party or a late night fighting with my boyfriend, I am at the bus stop, waiting not to miss the even so quickly moving and swooshing bus.

My job is simple — arrive at the markets by 7am and begin the setup. Open up the gazebo, set up the tables and assort the bagels in the right order with the right labels. Real manual labour job. Then, non-negotiable, eat one of the bagels, with or without cream cheese. And then we are on for about 7 hours of selling. Sometimes, I am lucky and I get to do it with a partner, especially if the markets are very busy. But even when I arrive alone, I am never alone for the day.

I often jokingly remark to people, when I recount this time in my life, on how markets fed me through university. The way many people refer to dry ramen noodles in a plastic cup. For me, the free food I got each Saturday and Sunday often was my food for the week. Except, it often was luscious produce, fresh bread, pastries and warm, ready-to-be-frozen meals. How did this happen? All because of the incredible warmth of the community I was invited to at the markets. As a vendor, you already had a special chip on your shoulder and were seen as “one of” the inner community. You could already prepare to take some things with you after the end of the shift. I was also able to participate in the complex trade of the age-old barter. A dozen bagels for a kilo of mandarins. 5 chocolate babkas for 3 servings of paella. 6 more bagels for fresh lettuce and lemons. Each week, it was different as seasonally, there is a massive change in what the vendors bring. In this, I have only covered what fed me physically but nothing can compare me to how it fed me mentally and spiritually. Each weekend, I had a large group of, no other way to put it, friends that I got to hang out with while we sold food.

Even if everything was going against me that day and I had to work with a gazebo with a massive hole during pouring rain and sit under the small patch of dryness soaking wet, I was coming to my shift. And it isn’t just the money that I was getting there.

People that come to the markets regularly also come to be united with community and get the experience of a third place. They want to remember your name, they come to pay extra for good food and to have a place where they belong. By joining them in this communion, you also end up finding a place where you belong.

There’s actually a name for what I was feeling, one I only learned years later. Researchers call it “sense of community”- SOC for short, defined as a feeling that you belong, that you matter to the group, and that your needs will be met through your commitment to being there (McMillan & Chavis, 1986). A 2021 systematic review of 24 studies on farmers markets found that this exact feeling, not the produce or the price, was consistently what kept people coming back. One shopper in the review put it almost exactly the way I would have: “we love it because it is the fabric of the community. Price isn’t that much of a concern… it’s the whole social aspect.”

Belonging, though, always had a face to me. A few of them come back to me clearest.

One, was a Scottish butcher, a burly man, often found laughing by his little meat truck. He would always answer with “Just another day in paradise” when anyone asked him how he was. A profound remark, a note of positivity I have adopted and often think back to. No matter how he felt, by answering the question that way, he got to feel that he, indeed, is just living another day in paradise. Profound tactic if you ask me.

Second was a hairdresser from New Zealand that left for Australia many years ago and took a massive pivot out of his career to selling second-hand books but with one strict rule, they had to be books/records he has read/listened to and enjoyed. I started coming to chat to him and we instantly connected over our love for books. This ended up in a multi-year deal we made. If I read the book he recommended and came back with feedback and returned it, he would let me have them for free for the time I needed to finish the book. It was the perfect deal. I, as a broke student, got to read top-tier literature, hand-picked for me for free. He got to have an interlocutor who read his favorite books and came for a chat and returned them in the same condition as when he gave them and then he still got to sell them. He was such a supportive, intelligent man and he was always intentional about what he consumed. I still have his number in my phone book on my phone and I have dialed it a few times over the year. I often wonder what he might be reading now.

And finally, I was acquainted by a Japanese family, a mother with her two children who helped her out at the market. No exceptions, each weekend they were there and were my “next stall neighbours”. One of the kids, the girl, would spend the long hours talking to me about anything. About her passion for gymnastics, about her friends, favorite books, and we would often share a meal together. Strangely, I still follow her Instagram and, seeing her get older, I always cheer her on in my mind.

I used to think I was just lucky — right place and right people. But luck implies it could have gone to anyone. The research suggests otherwise: belonging at the market was never random, it was built, deliberately or not, by who felt safe enough to linger, who was assumed to belong before they’d said a word. I got to be one of them almost instantly. Now I think the truth is simpler and a little more special than that. They fed me because I let myself be known there.

I still go on Saturday mornings, just a customer now, in a different city, years removed from that gazebo and those bagels. And that same ache still shows up, watching people set up, watching vendors greet regulars like old friends. Not quite grief, more like missing a version of belonging I didn’t know how rare it was to have.

The markets paid me every weekend for three years. Not just in mandarins and chocolate babkas, though I’d take that deal again in a heartbeat. They paid me in the quiet, steady knowledge that somewhere, every Saturday and Sunday, a small corner of the world was expecting me. That I was already one of them before I ever had to ask to be.

When I was eight years old, I really wanted an encyclopaedia. I remember sitting in the back seat of my grandpa’s car, looking out into the dim, frozen morning air in the depths of winter, waiting to be dropped off outside the door of my school and thinking just how much I wanted this encyclopaedia. Something about not only the colourful illustrations (nothing compares to the high you get from colourful pictures and illustrations as a kid, not even real drugs as an adult) and the variety of pictures and topics, but something specifically about knowing more. Knowing everything. That’s what I wanted. I wanted to understand everything, inside and out. I didn’t want or need any other toys, but I did dream every night about the encyclopaedia or, sometimes, that one big book with facts about ancient Egypt.

As an adult, I struggle with letting go and surrendering. I am addicted to the sense of control that knowing provides me with. Thinking back, maybe it was all the uncertainty of my family situation that made me anchor to knowing things so strongly. To me, knowing how and why something happens is nearly as good as controlling it. Understanding the mechanics and function behind just about anything feels like I can foresee the future and, in a strange way, take hold of it.

I think it’s the sense of safety that comes with it that I crave. I feel as though understanding how my body works, for example, will certainly protect me from becoming sick. Time and time again, I am faced with the reality of how wrong I am about that. Similarly, with all the other things and people I want to ‘control’ through knowing everything, I am surprised to find out that knowing what they might like and who they like talking to won’t be able to help predict their actions.

I am also obsessed with remembering important details about my loved ones’ lives. I remember a high school crush they had when we were in 9th grade; I remember the name of their colleague’s partner they mentioned that one time; their coffee orders. You name it, I memorised it. Knowing those things and not only being curious about them, but almost consuming this information about them, connects me in a way just spending time together on a superficial level wouldn’t.

It doesn’t stop there. In order to prepare for a surgery that I recently had, a surgery that I was absolutely petrified about and that I didn’t know how to prepare for, lo and behold, I watched an entire video on YouTube showing the entire procedure. I watched surgical training material for students on understanding the surgery because it made me feel more in control if I knew what was going to happen. How funny was it that it actually then petrified me five times more once I actually knew what was going to happen?

God, I keep being smacked with the same set of rakes on my forehead in every area of my life.

Because here is the thing:

Knowing ≠ ensuring safety.

It’s a protective blanket that I want to envelop myself in that turns out to be made of cheap takeaway bag plastic every time.

From another perspective, I cherish, respond to, and honour my curiosity. Curiosity that, within me, mixes with being a coping mechanism, yet the internal fuel feeding it comes from a place that is pure and deeply enjoyable. Strangely though, those two perspectives constantly interact and contradict each other. I love someone and want to know more about them, yet I also use it as a tool as to ‘not lose them’. I love learning about my body and my mind yet I am constantly trying to safeguard myself from having my mind and body become troubled with the tools of my learnings.

In the end, maybe the goal isn’t to know less. Maybe it’s to remember why I wanted to know in the first place. Before knowledge became armour, it was wonder. It’s to buy the encyclopaedia and wander the pages with the excitement of my eight year old self.

I would like to continue to lean into my curiosity, and simultaneously, lean into surrendering into not trying to control the outcome. Peep the words ‘trying to’ - that’s the key to the puzzle. The best I can do is ‘try’ to control. So what’s the point of spending my time doing that?

The joy is in the present moment. Where you cannot know what will happen next. And where you can continue to learn in a free-flowing way, instead of utilising each bit of information as a protective shield.

I choose to remove the layers of armour and surrender my weapons to the present.

The Darkness cradled her. Hundreds of invisible arms which belonged to the soldiers of the darkness held her above the air yet below the tree heads. The trees were silently watching this performance as if it as a settled ritual. In the arms of the dark she thought about the colours that the blind couldn’t see. Even the darkness had colors, shades. As her mind was wandering, she noticed how her body was slowly carried deeper into the forrest. She didn’t feel any pain, no fear.

When the first rays of sunshine started waltzing between the branches, the battle began. Slowly, The Light won this one, once again. She was walking through the crisp waves of snow returning home. The sweat was running down her brows and she felt uncomfortably warm inside her clothes. She suddenly stood still, checking if the little amulet was still hanging off the thin thread around her neck. It was a gift from Don Quixote. He gave it to her a few weeks ago and she couldn’t help but think of him. She thought of him as her father, her true Father who gave her all the tools for her life. He loved her and she idolised him, she couldn’t see all his mistakes, she couldn’t understand some of his words and she never saw him without the little wrinkles that covered his face with a web. He named her Iris after the little violet dots on her blue iris. She started walking again. Her two hearts started pumping slower and her breath slowed down.

By the door she shook off all of the slow she gathered and took off her heavy jacket. The room she entered was filled with light. Three windows without curtains let in all the light it could possibly invite. The wall to the left, which gathered all of the light from the morning sun, was filled entirely, leaving no empty space. It was filled with small gems, diamonds, pieces of pearl shells, tiny mirrors, elvish amulets, white balls, sets of crystal cups, small ballerina figures, broken lightbulbs. All of them made the Light reflect much stronger and almost making anyone who would come in see-through. The wall on the right, reflecting all of the light that would come after the noon and all the way until the last sun ray would run behind the horizon and give way to the dusk entering the scene, was similarly filled with small objects but now, instead of them all being light and white, they all had a golden shade. Small golden figures gathered from all around the world, brown, golden, bronze vases, small ceramic pieces made using small bits of golden-coated glass, yellow ribbons, various rings on aureate strings, necklaces, golden swords, corn-colored wardrobe handles, Christmas bells. The wall behind her was completely empty, not including one large jacket hook and the wall in front of her had a large mirror hanging, in which she saw her rosy face. Around the mirror there were six small hooks on which different small beige bags were hanging. When she met Don Quixote, there was only one small bag on these hooks, now she saw all six filled with them.

“Do-o-o-on! I’m home! Let me just quickly jump in the shower!”, she screamed.

“Okay! But we are heading out after, we’re going on a trip so be quick” she heard from the depths of another room.

She danced into the bathroom, taking off her clothes on the way. The bathroom smelt like fresh oranges and she saw a pile of tangerine peels by the bathtub. She swept them off the floor and put into the tub. Don always said that it helps the skin and that all oranges are small gifts from the Light and that she should cherish them. When the bath was filled with hot water and foam, she jumped into the warm mess. Splashes covered the floor and she got some water up her nose which made her sneeze loudly. Small soap bubbles jumped around her, dancing in the air. When the largest two bubbles popped, two small washing fairies flew up. They looked like two sisters, both wearing silver-like capes and tiny see-through boots. “So, Toffee, did you see the new glasses Don got for you?”, squeezed out one of them, as she began soaping up Iris’s head. “And the new shoes he gifted us?”, sang the other one. “Oh, Flammy, I don’t know what you’re talking about, I haven’t seen Don since yesterday. And yes, Flimmy, the shoes are quite something!”, said Iris. Don also called her Toffee sometimes, Iris was a name for toffee in another language Don has read about and he liked the idea. Iris also liked it, she felt the sweet pain of taking off toffee with her tongue off the back of her mouth each time someone called her that. Flimmy and Fmammy continued talking about the shoes they got and about how dirty Toffee got that one time when they spent two hours making her look like a girl again, while scrubbing her with a hard brush. When they were finally done and Iris stood up, they covered her in a soft towel and as she opened her eyes, the room was empty once again.

They left the house quickly. Picked up the equipment, some food in case it runs long, some clothes. The sky was bluer than the bluest shades of a melancholic woman from the 1800s… to be continued

'In-yun', the leitmotif in "Past Lives", comes from Buddhism and the concept of reincarnation, as Nora's character explains in the film. According to her character, every encounter between people is 'in-yun' but "it takes 8,000 layers of 'in-yun'" for two people to be together in a lifetime.

1361 (6639 to go)

The distant hum of landing planes, a faint echo of a child's cry from an elusive source, mingling conversations, and the discomfort of sitting in leather chairs partitioned by metallic dividers—these sounds fade beneath the sway of the languid jazzy tune in his headphones. Walking leisurely, he savors the sensation of departing from a city that was never meant to be his. This flight constitutes the final thread bridging the gap to his true home. He's yearned for the way his mother's hand waved animatedly during her impassioned tales, how his girlfriend's leg sought solace atop his as slumber drew near, and the crisp, invigorating air at home—refreshing without the bone-chilling bite of the northern cold. These are the simple joys that only surface when one has been estranged from home for too long.

Each step exudes confidence as he strides toward the ultimate check-in counter. There, he deposits his passport and ticket into the awaiting hands of his soon-to-be stewardess. She glances up, momentarily captivated by a flicker of intrigue in his eyes. For a fleeting second, they stand united, sharing that intangible pleasure one experiences when gazing into a stranger's eyes and sensing a mysterious connection. She averts her gaze, the air turning stifling far too swiftly, compelling her to withdraw.

Stepping onto the rigid, gray carpet that leads to the aircraft, he grins to himself. In moments, his attention shifts, and the memory of this encounter dissipates into the vast repository of his subconscious mind.

Thirteen years later, it will resurface as a peculiar sensation from a dream—a sensation resembling an enigmatic brand of nostalgia, akin to glimpsing someone long forgotten. Yet, like a fine-meshed sieve, memory only retains what's substantial enough to cling onto.

3488 (4512 to go)

Her small hand rests gently in his grasp. At seven, a friendship bracelet holds profound significance. Her elder sister proudly wears one, symbolizing her unbreakable bond, while her mother's necklace, a gift from her father long ago, carries the weight of enduring love. Such tokens encapsulate the unique ways people express their connections.

This moment marks the culmination of her anticipation. Over time, she's collected a multitude of tiny beads, each selection influenced by both her preferences and what she believes he would cherish. A bead with a lion's face, a deep blue reminiscent of sunny beach days with her mother, three purples marking the moment they first met. In the center, a substantial bead, the heart of the story she wishes to convey. Swift choices define the remaining beads, her excitement for assembly overshadowing the deliberation of selection. These last-minute additions hold an element of surprise for both him and her when she eventually presents her creation. She recalls the satisfaction in sliding beads onto the string, the soft sound of their journey akin to sharing secrets, each meeting marked by a satisfying 'clack' as the beads joined. Yet, the pinnacle of joy lay in the act of giving.

The bracelet is placed delicately in his chubby hand, a shade of pink that only a child's hand can possess. He accepts it, giving the beads a gentle squeeze before examining the arrangement. His initial confusion gives way to understanding. Amidst the array of colors and shapes, he finds the focal point – the heart of the gesture. Encased within a single bead, the message is simple yet powerful: "my best friend." His gaze meets hers, his heartbeat quickening, a rhythm known only to him. Swiftly, he unfurls the bracelet, gauges its length, and secures it around his wrist, looping it twice for a snug fit.

Taking her hand, he leads her away from their familiar spot. The early morning sunlight kisses their faces as they scamper away together, their hands intertwined in unity.

7200 (800 to go)

The gentle jingle of the doorbell marks their entrance, a quiet announcement of their long-awaited reunion. He has spent his time away studying, while she has kept to the rhythms of their hometown through work. Now, they find themselves seated in the familiar Chinese dumpling restaurant of their upbringing. The scents and sounds are like old friends – the savory aroma, linoleum floors that have seen countless patrons, and menus bound together with metal rings, a bit weathered with age. The restaurant is an unchanged haven, a silent witness to their evolving lives.

Their feelings for each other have always been present, a shared understanding that someday they would find themselves here, together. But that moment remains just out of reach for now. Their friendship has been a steadfast anchor through their school years, a bond nurtured by hours of easy conversation. They always knew there was something more beneath the surface – a connection that went beyond the ordinary. They craved a relationship that was deeper than mere attraction, desiring to be confidants who could bridge the gap between friendship and partnership. Their emotions swirl like the last drops of a drink in a glass – a mixture of excitement, the warmth of reuniting, and the tension that accompanies it. As they settle into their seats, the excitement spills over, and they interrupt each other with a flurry of questions. He lets her take the lead, and they delve into various topics: past relationships, favorite subjects, life in the dorm, and even the consistency of his breakfast choices. Yet, there's one question that weighs heavily on her heart, one she can't help but ask: "Will you come back after this trip?" His response is a whisper, a soft murmur that leaves a trace in her mind. It's an answer she already knew, but hearing it out loud feels like a tangible ache. Despite it all, she refuses to let it overshadow the precious time they have together.

In the years to come, she'll share this story, perhaps with her own children, altering the details to portray a tale of deep friendship rather than the truth of their complex emotions. Yet, deep down, she'll never forget the intensity of their gazes meeting, the unspoken words that passed between them, and the connection that defied easy explanation. But for now, she lets the story rest – a memory of a moment in time, a chapter of her life marked by its own unique resonance.

8000 (0 to go)

She lays her head on the thin blanket. It still has that same smell, the aroma of the person you spent all this time with. She could lay there for days on, just wishing she had a little bit more time there, in that moment, in that space where they could be together. Strange how you can meet someone you never knew would be your soulmate so late in life. How has she gone through all of this heartache, struggle, beauty, ageing, travelling, thinking she knows what the meaning of love is only to discover it for such a short while so late in life? They met at a bookclub for retirees. She has been yearning to join other people to read together. She has always loved to read, she has always wanted tone around someone who wanted to discuss books. But unfortunately, both of her husbands enjoyed other things. She did not blame them, it was not their problem. But there was something that was missing in their connection. Maybe it was that they could not discuss books? And maybe if they truly had been the “one”s, there would not be a need to think about her being a reader and them not being readers. Both of them at this point were gone, children raised and spread out on their own as they always do. She joined that particular club because it was close to her home and she had seen a paper advertisement on the big board of ads stuck on top of each other on the “announcements” board on the first floor of her building. She felt shy and strange going there, like a little girl who was about to get on a big stage and be noticed by everyone. Nowadays, she didn’t think much about what people thought about her but this felt different. Feeling giddy, excited and nervous, she entered the building. They met by the coffee machines, wonky and malfunctioning, the machine yelped and cracked, attempting to spit out black specks of coffee. He was standing next to her, tall stature and with a slightly awkward bend to his shoulders. They became inseparable from the moment they spoke to each other that day. Love was not at all like the thing she had experienced when she was young and filled with sweaty passion, tension that was in everything and endless arguments, proving she deserved more than the other person. This was more about companionship; respectful, gentle but yet, mysterious. There was something so very interesting in not knowing who they were their whole lives. It was as if they got to erase their past and start again. Sadly, sometimes the universe missed the shot that it got, and they only got to spend 4 years together before the thin thread was disconnected and one of them was left with the little tie on their pinky, invisible yet real.

8002 (2 over, 7998 to go)

The keyboard clacked. The background music played yet another playlist. It was just another Tuesday. As he walked in, he struggled to get up the stairs (needed to get back on that bloody bike!). He took a few slow steps towards the entrance to the office, stepping on the quiet gray carpet. The door clanged, he walked in. Along a line of desks and computers, his favorite colleague sat.

"Hey, John! How was your weekend fishing? Was it just as sunny on the coast as here?" His colleague laughed, "It was definitely sunny, this burn I got on my nose is there as evidence. We caught a massive tuna and I had way too many beers. I hope you had a nice one too!"

"Oh yeah," he replied, "it was lovely..."

He walked on and took a seat at his desk. John was still telling the tuna story when he sat back down at his own, three desks over, loud enough to carry. He smiled at nothing in particular and turned on his monitor.

Many people crave community now more than ever before. We're continuously separated—by screens, time zones, algorithms that feed us rage, anxieties about how we'll come across, political divides, and incompatible worldviews. We're separated physically and spiritually. The result? Our brains scramble in isolation, searching for something we can't quite name. That something is community. The village that shows up when you're in need. The people who care for you on the bad days as much as the good ones. We crave this as a species, but especially as modern people navigating an increasingly fragmented world.

I see countless videos and posts about what's missing in modern life—why we feel so lonely, so unmoored, so disconnected. And I think the answer is simpler than we want to admit: we've abandoned the custom of duty. Not duty in a militaristic sense. Not the grinding obligation of tasks completed because we must. I'm talking about the duty of being a good friend. The duty of being a caring family member. The duty of showing up for people in need. The duty to do good, even when it's inconvenient. This word has fallen out of favor, become something we associate with drudgery or blind obedience. But duty, at its best, is what holds communities together. It's the bridge between craving connection and actually building it.

Being a friend or loved one to someone comes with responsibility—a responsibility that has to be upheld, cherished, and respected. It's not always pretty. Community comes with discomfort and discipline. Sometimes it's showing up to a friend's house with their favorite meal when you'd rather go home and watch that show you've been waiting for all week. Sometimes it's calling your mom when you're tired and don't feel like talking, but she needs to hear your voice. It's making a massive batch of lasagne for a friend's party even though it'll take you five hours. It's the small, unglamorous acts of love. It's showing up incessantly, fiercely protecting the part of you that wants to do good for those around you.

And yes, the world and your loved ones will eventually bring that love back to you. But that's not the point. The point is in the act itself—the doing, the loving, the showing up.

When we abandon duty, we lose more than community—we lose self-respect. There's a particular kind of dignity that comes from honoring your commitments to others, from being someone people can count on. It's the satisfaction of knowing that when life got hard for someone you love, you didn't look away. Duties were a functional and fundamental part of existing for generations. Even though technology and modern life have changed the world in countless positive ways, this one essential element has slowly faded into irrelevance. We suffer for it and don't understand why.

I'm not talking about toxic obligation or martyring yourself. Healthy duty has boundaries. It doesn't mean sacrificing your wellbeing or enabling destructive behavior. It doesn't mean staying in relationships that harm you or giving endlessly to people who never reciprocate. But somewhere between radical individualism and self-destruction, there's a middle ground: the choice to show up for people even when it costs you something.

This isn't easy. Modern life makes it harder than ever. We're busy, we're tired, we're overstimulated and overwhelmed. The path of least resistance is to stay home, to text instead of call, to send thoughts and prayers instead of showing up with groceries. And some people won't reciprocate. You'll make the lasagne and they won't come to your birthday. You'll drive across town at midnight and they won't answer when you need them. That's the risk of duty—it's not transactional. It requires faith that the act itself matters, regardless of the return.

But here's what I believe: if enough of us start practicing this again, if we begin to treat our relationships as sacred responsibilities rather than casual conveniences, we can rebuild what's been lost. One dinner at a time. One late-night call at a time. One act of showing up when it would be easier to stay home. You don't need to revolutionize your life tomorrow. Start with one person. One commitment you follow through on even when it's inconvenient. One moment where you choose presence over comfort. Ask yourself: Who in my life needs me to show up right now? Not in a grand, dramatic way—just in a real, human way. Then do it.

Bring back the sense of duty. Not because it's easy, but because it's how we save each other—and ourselves—from the isolation that's slowly swallowing us whole. The world needs more people who show up. Be one of them.