Remember that series from the mid-90s, the one that felt impossibly relevant, like it had access to the exact frequency of how we felt back then, before feelings became ironic.
As a 90s kid now living through a thoroughly clichéd midlife crisis, that feeling returns like a place you know by heart. It feels like home and like something you need to escape.
There was a strange safety in having no control over your destiny. A sweet kind of imprisonment. Life stretched wide with possibility, contained within a room cluttered with memory-heavy objects: posters, tapes, books, useless things gathering dust in the corners. Today, just items you want to throw away and keep forever at the same time.
Midlife feels closer to that than I expected. Something like a second adolescence, a moment when identity loosens again, and meaning isn’t assumed but quietly questioned. A reminder of how seriously we once took interior life and how necessary it might be to take it seriously again.