The unrestrained collective internet, the modern Tower of Babel, has created a new female iconoclast – one that seeks especial validation without being especially unique, one that professes a love for adventure whilst hobbyless, one who oscillates between “kill all men” rhetoric and casual sex, one that is no longer confined by a sacerdotal understanding of modesty or shame but expects respect for her “spiritualism”, one that champions women’s rights and bodily autonomy but has regular rape fantasies. The narcissistic tribal ego has fed them a list of buzzwords, via Instagram, that makes the arguments for them. “Well you just sound like a Christian Fascist”. The femcel is starving for a sense of community but finds herself in transient and ephemeral guerrilla communities. Her presence is a perpetual migraine; she lives in total dissonance. Despite the inherent contradictions and the underlying fragility of her persona, she remains oblivious, cocooned in the validation of new negligent men. She remains enigmatic to the unknowing eye, but just wait until they hear about the piss jars.

No matter how it appears, she is an impulsive diva. You have very different truths.

My life has been ground to the finest powder and passed through the finest sieve. Here in the dust of my essence, I walk for eons in the ash of great expectations. Here there is no epiphany, direction or future – only unfurling expanse of decay and rot.

“I feel like soft sand slipping through an hourglass –
Still, but always moving downward”.

The anguished cries of my soul dwindle to a whimper. Each moment demands distraction on the road to nowhere. Caught in an eternal cycle of birth and death, I am but a fleeting spark of unremarkable hue – a solitary ember amidst the vast cosmic void. I am a hamster running on a wheel. I am shackled, watching shadows dance on cave walls.