The Current Cycle of Shitness We Live In! Oh, What a Wonderful World

There’s a Certain Absurdity to It, Isn’t There?

Waking up every day to a world that feels like it's on fire, because it literally is in some places, and metaphorically in every other, while being spoon-fed the same exhausted mantras:

Stay positive!

Be grateful for what you have!

Manifest abundance!

Like a broken record of toxic optimism, looping endlessly while everything around us cracks. Meanwhile, the news isn’t just bad, it’s surreal. The economy is a house of cards where the rich keep stacking their winnings while everyone else pretends not to notice the wind picking up. Politicians don’t even bother with convincing lies anymore, just corporate-approved gibberish wrapped in whatever branding plays best on social media. And the billionaires?

They’re not just hoarding wealth; they’re cosplaying as saviours, launching themselves into space or preaching “innovation” while their workers skip meals to afford rent.

And yet, here we are. Still clocking in. Still scrolling. Still showing up, playing our part in a story that no one fully believes in anymore, but that we keep performing anyway.

There’s an unspoken absurdity in the sheer repetition of it all. The way each day is a remix of the last. The way we juggle existential dread with grocery lists, existential crises with office meetings, the looming collapse of systems with the minor panic of a late email reply.

It would almost be funny if it weren’t so exhausting. And maybe that’s the real trick of the world we live in.

It’s not that someone is pulling the strings. It’s that the weight of everything, work, bills, survival, the never-ending churn, leaves little room to stop and ask, why does it have to be like this?

So, what do we do with that?

Because pretending it’s all fine isn’t working.

And giving up entirely isn’t an option, either.

So, where the heck does that leave us?

The Revolving Door of Disaster

The cycle works like this:

Something Terrible Happens.

Take your pick, climate crisis, war, economic collapse, new AI swallowing jobs, social media rewiring our brains, another financial scandal where somehow only the rich get richer. There’s always a fresh catastrophe on the conveyor belt.

Outrage Peaks.

The headlines flood in. The internet lights up. People tweet (or X, or whatever it is called), protest, demand action. Panel discussions dissect the crisis from every

angle. Think pieces emerge, all variations of how did we get here? and what must be done?

Nothing Changes.

Maybe there’s an inquiry. Maybe a CEO issues a half-apology. Maybe a politician promises reform while donors quietly whisper in their ear. A few weeks pass, and surprise! the big solutions never arrive.

Distraction Drops.

Oh look, a celebrity scandal. Oh look, a new iPhone. Oh look, another election cycle where we’re given the choice between two flavours of bullshit. The noise shifts. The focus drifts. The urgency fades.

Repeat.

Rinse and recycle. The next crisis slots neatly into place, and the machine keeps humming along, undisturbed.

It’s easy to say the system is broken, but that’s not quite right. It’s working exactly as it’s meant to, keeping people exhausted enough to be frustrated, entertained enough to be distracted, and engaged just enough to feel like change might be possible without ever allowing it to fully materialise.

It’s stability through chaos. Constant movement that leads nowhere.

And the worst part?

We know it. We joke about it. We meme it. We laugh about the absurdity of it all. But joking isn’t the same as fixing.

It dulls the sharp edges of despair, sure, but it doesn’t change the fact that the wheel keeps turning, and we’re still strapped in for the ride.

Futility of Hope (And Why We Still Cling to It Anyway)

Hope feels like a trick we play on ourselves, except, if it is, it’s the only trick that keeps us moving.

You try to believe things can get better, but every step forward is met with ten steps back. Every so-called “win” is quietly undone in the background while we celebrate it. Every promise of change seems to come with an asterisk that only appears once the cameras turn off.

Climate change? Still accelerating, ice caps melting, disasters intensifying, and the people most responsible still cashing in.

Wealth inequality? Worse than ever, record profits for corporations while basic survival costs more than ever.

Democracy? More like a high-budget theatre production, scripted, rehearsed, funded by the same people on all sides.

Mental health? Greater awareness, different options for therapy, but the system is the problem, treating symptoms while the causes remain untouched.

And yet….. and yet….. despite the overwhelming evidence that everything is rigged, despite the consistent disappointments, despite the waves of nihilism that hit at 3 a.m., most of us still try.

Why?

Because the alternative is giving up completely.

And here’s the thing about completely giving up: No one actually does it. Not fully.

Even the most cynical, most jaded person still finds something that tethers them to this ridiculous, unraveling world. A friend who makes them laugh at the worst possible moments. A cause that, despite everything, still feels worth fighting for. A weird hobby that serves no purpose other than making the day slightly more bearable. A stray cat that shows up on the doorstep one day and never leaves.

Even in a cycle of shitness, something small keeps us anchored. And maybe that’s not hope in the grand, world-changing sense. Maybe it’s just a quiet refusal to fully disengage.

Maybe that’s enough.

The "Self-Care vs. Systemic Change" Trap

You’ve probably heard this one: "You have to take care of yourself before you can take care of the world." Fair. True. No argument there.

But here’s the catch: The world doesn’t make it easy to take care of yourself. In fact, it actively works against it, then sells the solution back to you at a

premium. Work grinds people into burnout, then sells them wellness retreats. A quick getaway, a mindfulness seminar, a scented candle, anything to keep you functioning just well enough to get back to the grind. The economy underpays people, then tells them to budget better. As if the problem is how you spend your money rather than the fact that there’s never enough of it to begin with. The world makes everyone anxious, then markets meditation apps. A calm voice telling you to just breathe while the rent goes up again.

This is where the self-care narrative gets slippery. It takes genuine needs, rest, mental wellbeing, boundaries and reframes them as personal responsibilities rather than structural issues. It tells people to be more resilient instead of asking why so much resilience is needed in the first place. And that’s not an accident.

Because when people are exhausted, overworked, distracted, and barely keeping themselves afloat, they don’t have the capacity to push for real change. They’re too busy trying to survive the week.

The cycle of shitness is self-sustaining.

Not because of some grand, shadowy plan, just because it’s easier to keep people running on empty than to ask what’s draining them in the first place.

And that’s the real trap.

Self-care is necessary, but it’s not the fix. It’s what keeps people functional within a broken system, but it won’t repair what’s breaking them in the first place.

The Smallest

Rebellions Are All We Have (But Maybe That’s Always Been True)

Here’s where it gets tricky.

You can’t fix the world alone. But you also can’t let the world convince you that nothing you do matters. Because that? That’s how inertia wins.

It doesn’t need you to believe things are great. It just needs you to believe there’s no point in trying. That nothing will ever change.

That you should just keep your head down, focus on your own life, and accept that this is just how things are. But here’s the thing: even the smallest acts of defiance

disrupt the script.

Choosing to care in a time that encourages apathy is a rebellion.

When the dominant mood is why bother?, giving a shit is a radical act.

Choosing to connect in a culture of isolation is a rebellion.

Checking in on people, building relationships, refusing to disappear into the algorithmic void, it all matters.

Choosing to think critically in an era of algorithm-fed bullshit is a rebellion.

Questioning narratives, resisting easy answers, staying curious when everything is designed to keep you passive, that’s how systems shift.

Choosing to act, in even the smallest way, disrupts the cycle, if only for a moment.

Maybe it’s something tiny and seemingly inconsequential, helping someone with no expectation of return, sharing knowledge that challenges a false narrative, offering kindness in a moment that doesn’t require it.

Maybe it’s something bigger, refusing to let cynicism settle into your bones, refusing to accept this is just how it is, refusing to let exhaustion turn into apathy.

It won’t fix everything. But it’s a crack in the cycle.

And enough cracks?

That’s how things start to break.

Oh, What a Wonderful World (No, Really)

For all the bullshit, the exhaustion, the everything, there are still moments. Tiny, stupid, beautiful moments that slip through the cracks.

A dog sticking its head out of a car window, ears flapping, completely in the moment.

A song that catches you off guard and hits you straight in the chest.

The way the sky turns electric just before a storm, thick with something ancient and alive.

A conversation that reminds you, even for a second, that you’re not alone in all this.

None of it fixes the bigger problems. The world is still a mess. The cycle still turns. But these moments? They remind you that, despite everything, life isn’t just a list of things that are broken. There are still pockets of something real. Still things worth noticing. Still things worth holding onto.

And maybe that’s the thing.

Not waiting for hope to arrive.

Not expecting the world to change overnight.

Just paying attention.

Just collecting the moments that make it all feel less like a trap.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s how we keep going, until the cycle breaks, or until we carve out something better outside of it.