Another day, here on Earth

Rushing through a busy railway station on a Thursday morning, trying to make it to a connecting train, head down to the ground, I pass a beetle, flat on its back, struggling to right itself. Hundreds of pairs of feet, just like mine rush past, not noticing, not caring. I rush past too.

How did it get here? This platform is up two flights of stairs. Yet there it is, in the least hospitable, barren desert it will ever see. What a horrible place to die. This sterile, featureless, inhospitable landscape is our created haven, to facilitate our given right to go anywhere we like, at ridiculous speeds that are inevitably always too slow and need improvement by bureaucratic money makers. And there’s this beetle. A fitting illustration of nature’s struggle, ignored by so many lucky, entitled passers-by.

Not me. Within a few yards, I knew I would suffer for years thinking about what I could have done. What I should have done. So I turn back. Getting angry stares and British tuts as I dare to go against the flow. She’s still there, though the fighting to get upright has ceased. A peaceful surrender. I scoop her up and take her with me. All of a sudden, there, the legs begin to kick once again. Hope, for her and for me. I carry her down to the platform and drop her into the grass behind, where no flat, shiny surfaces exist. Where she can use anything to right herself if needs be.

I may be many things. I may have made mistakes and this beetle may be one tiny grain of dust in the universe, but so am I. She is of more use to the planet than me and I know it. And she lives to fight another day.


It’s definitely no secret that I have issues with the word ‘progress’. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely, positive word and, when coupled with phrases like, “Your son is making such good progress in playing with the other children. He rarely spits at them now, and hasn’t thrown faeces at anyone since Wednesday”, it sits nicely (Miss Long, school report, summer 1988). What I hate is how the P word is used to describe a pointless high-speed railway that cuts through and destroys an abundance of ancient woodland in the process, or another housing estate of six five-bedroom houses built on green belt land that would be better sacrificed for twenty two-bedroom houses to at least attempt to tackle the housing crisis.

My real gripe with progress is technology. More specifically the ones sent to entertain and inform us. Using the internet as an example, the original creators of the world wide web, I believe, had the best intentions – to create a universal network of pages of information that can be shared for the benefit of the species. Only now, aside from the fake news and complete drivel found at every click, it’s the perfect platform to alienate eachother, as well as find reasons why any view you have, either good or bad, is valid instead of finding reasons to change your view or just see another perspective. I suppose a similar argument could be made about printing, and how it is now used to publish newspapers, or how photography is now used to record what you’re about to eat and share it with everyone whereas it was once revered as a miracle creation.

I’ve written before about the future, and how embracing things like artificial intelligence and virtual reality will ultimately extinguish the flame of what makes us human on multiple levels, and there is the concern of the Orwellian dystopia we are more or less living in now – the surveillance of our lives, both in our homes and our pockets. My biggest worry is how everything that is bad for us, generally becomes normalised. It’s great that mental health is openly discussed now, but why is mental health such a widespread problem nowadays, especially amongst the younger generation? Children having mental health counselling is now considered normal, whilst the same teenagers (screenagers?) are spending more and more time on devices, accessing things they don’t really need to know about, at the expense of a safer, more organic childhood. We’re very fortunate and privileged these days than previous generations, yet why are we less happy and less settled?

I’m a firm believer in rewilding, both ourselves and our environment, but it is becoming increasingly difficult in a world so hooked on commodities and mass consumption. I think it’s a healthy thing to be exposed to situations and experiences that make us feel vulnerable and uncomfortable – basically, things that our forefathers considered normal. I’ve written before about the art of being comfortable being uncomfortable, and I believe more than ever that living a life keeping your head down is betraying your potential. I’ve had a few days in the mountains where my nerves and resolve have been pushed to the edges of what I deem uncomfortable, but getting myself out of those situations has taught me a hundred times more than what I would have learned from a day that went to plan. It also made me feel very alive. Commuting on a train (pre-pandemic) was always interesting. The visible trauma some people went through if the seat next to them became suddenly occupied.

I’ve found throughout most of my adult life that going back to basics possesses a huge benefit. In times of struggle, mostly, the first thing I will do to set the wheels of recovery in motion or to begin the inevitable thought-processing, is to go for a walk. When life gets too busy or loud (not necessarily volume, just disturbance) I know a long walk and/or night spent out under the stars is all that is required to de-escalate the approaching negativity.

I’ve come to believe that having less ultimately leads you to feeling happier and more content and that stripping back to basics where feasible is hugely beneficial in the long run. Simplicity, in short. A perfect example of cheap progress (slowgress) is in my house, where there are two games consoles. One, is a once state-of-the-art PlayStation 4. All the mod cons, hooks up to the internet, has wireless controllers and enables you to play games with or against your friends, or strangers, without (God forbid) having to get dressed and leave the house. The other is a 1996 Sega Mega Drive 2. 16-bit graphics, wired controllers. Old school. Compare the two. 22 years between them. One simply switches on, the game loads within a minute, and away you go, playing. The other, more often than not, needs to ‘update’ for the best part of an hour before you can play, the controllers constantly need recharging, the graphics are so realistic it’s easy to forget it’s a game, and through the social networking capabilities, you stand a fine chance of being verbally abused by strangers while playing. That, to me, sounds like 20 steps backwards. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you progress.