Analog Soul

Unread. Unseen. Undone. A weekly whisper from the edge of the algorithm. The inbox will wait. The world won’t combust. And your worth isn’t measured in cleared notifications. This isn’t just a reminder. It’s a permission slip. A call to arms for your peace. Because when you refuse to race the clock, when you leave things undone, you are saying yes to something far greater: your own well-being. In a world where urgency is a constant companion, choosing stillness is a radical act. So go on! Let the unread pile grow. Let the unseen moments accumulate like soft shadows around your soul. This week, protect your edges. Guard the quiet spaces within. Give yourself the grace to simply be. Without achievement, without checkmarks, without guilt. The algorithm won’t mourn your absence. The world will keep turning. And in this unhurried breathing space, you might just find the clarity, the calm, the spark of life you’ve been missing. Be gloriously unreachable. Be fiercely present with yourself. Be...

  The Modern World Is Gaslighting Your Soul We are the most connected generation in history. And yet most of us couldn’t find our own breath without a wellness app. We wake up to alarms that demand productivity before we’ve even remembered we exist. We scroll past war, wonder, weddings, and wildfires like they’re all just different flavours of noise. We spend our best hours staring into screens that do nothing but blink back. And here’s the kicker: We call this normal . But this isn’t normal. This is spiritual disorientation. This is a machine-fed life, disguised as freedom. And it’s gaslighting us. Convincing us that the ache in our chest is just “low dopamine,” and not the sound of our inner life begging to be heard. Somewhere along the way, We outsourced meaning to metrics. Traded wisdom for information. Sacrificed mystery for machine learning. But your soul? It doesn’t give a damn about your follower count. It doesn’t care how fast your internet is or how many ...

They promised us intimacy. They delivered dopamine. They promised us networks. They gave us nets. Somewhere along the glowing timeline, we confused being reachable with being reached. We mistake reaction for resonance. And we call it “connection” because it pings. But I’ll tell you what it really is: It’s a pub full of ghosts. Everyone shouting into mirrors, hoping someone’ll hear through the filter fog. We’ve outsourced attention to the Algorithm, and sure, it’s efficient. But it doesn’t care about your soul. It won’t hold space for your grief. It won’t pour you tea or say, “You alright, love?” It’ll just keep feeding you ads until your heart becomes a heatmap. We reply with emojis now instead of silences. Scroll instead of sitting. Flick through “content” while our inner world gathers dust in the attic. And here’s the gas thing: The WiFi will forgive you. Try it. Turn the bastard off. Listen to the hush. There’s gold in it. There’s you in it. Ní neart go cur le chéile. There is no st...

 

The Present Moment Is a Feckin’ Miracle: A Field Guide to Coming Home to Now By Analog Soul Carl Jung once said, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” Nietzsche roared, “Become who you are!” Buddha, ever the minimalist, just sat and smiled. And Carl Sagan looked up and whispered, “We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” What do they all have in common? They knew that the real show — the transformation, the liberation, the crackling magic of being alive — happens only in the present moment. Not in your to-do list. Not in your inbox. Not in the performance review you're already rehearsing in the shower. But right here. Now. In this breath. This fucking breath. We’ve Become Ghosts in Our Own Lives Most of us live like we’re buffering. Caught between the trauma of yesterday and the spreadsheet of tomorrow. Swiping. Scrolling. Performing. Checking our worth through Wi-Fi signals and likes-per-minute. O...

Or, Why Your Passive-Aggressive Emails Are Just Your Inner Irishman Having a Chat If Carl Jung were alive today, I’m convinced he’d spend more time analysing your inbox than your dreams. Because in every unread message, every clipped “Thanks,” and every “Per my last email,” lies the shadow—the part of ourselves we’d rather not admit exists. You see, the shadow isn’t just a fancy word for bad behaviour. It’s the collection of all those feelings, frustrations, and truths that we shove down because the polite workplace demands it. But, as any Irish mammy will tell you, what’s hidden tends to bubble up in unexpected ways — usually with a sharp twist of humour and a hefty dose of sass. Take the classic passive-aggressive email — that “Interesting thoughts” that’s really a “Are you fecking serious?” or the “Love this! Just a few tiny tweaks,” that translates to “I’m pretending to care but I’m about to rearrange everything.” Or the silence, followed by a WhatsApp group rant that’s so authenti...

Te Ones Who Knew: A Tribute to AI’s Early Warning System Before it got shiny. Before your granny asked ChatGPT for soup recipes and Spotify thought sadness was a playlist… There were voices. Not many — and most were ignored. But they saw something in the circuitry. They heard the whisper under the code. “This won’t just change your tech. It’ll change  you. ” Some were writers. Some were renegade coders. Some were ethicists who knew how capitalism dances with innovation — fast, greedy, blindfolded. And they warned us. Not with panic, but precision. Not as Luddites, but as  witnesses. Meet the Prophets Jaron Lanier : The dreadlocked pioneer of virtual reality, who’s been telling us since the ‘90s that digital platforms commodify the soul. He coined the term “digital Maoism.” You probably saw the hair first — but his warnings cut deep. Shoshana Zuboff : She named the beast —  surveillance capitalism  — and wrote a 700-page epic to show how our lives became raw data for ...

The Prophets of the Machine They warned us, not with fire and brimstone, but with code, and questions. In the hush between mainframes and meaning, they saw what we didn’t: that the algorithm would grow teeth. Not to bite, but to smile, while it rewrote us. They were poets in lab coats, activists in server rooms, fictioneers who stitched warnings into stories we shrugged off. We called them pessimists. Tinfoil. Too early. Too serious. Too human. But now the feed is full of their echoes.                                                       Lanier. Zuboff. Buolamwini. Rushkoff. Chiang. The mad lads and mná who asked: What does it mean to stay human… when machines learn to mimic soul? They saw it. We scroll it. Still - it’s not too late to listen.

Grim  

Ponder deeper Look not to the algorithm for answers, but to the ancient voices— in philosophy, in theology, in the worn pages of soul-searchers before us. Ask the questions that ache in your heart: What is good? What is evil? Why do we do what we do? The world is loud with noise, but wisdom whispers— quiet, patient, eternal. ♾️

To scroll, or not to scroll—that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and pings of outrageous group chats, Or to take arms against a sea of selfies, And by logging off, end them? To nap—perchance to dream— Aye, there’s the rub: For in that nap of rest, what thoughts may come When we’ve unplugged from this infernal feed? The weekend promised peace. But here we are, souls on standby, Lost in the algorithm’s soliloquy. So I ask you, quietly: Will you choose presence over pixels today? A pen over a post? A walk over a wall of filtered faces? The curtain is yours to raise.