The Generation with no letters left.

An ordinary uncertainly painful day at “work”?

My friend and I are sitting at our desks (she is at the kitchen table and I’m seriously compromising my posture nestled on the couch), a cup of tea precariously arranged on the table, the cats that jump around our stuff and shed some tears and blood in their never ending game of thrones for who will have the couch and who will be sleeping on the cozy chair near the bathroom for the next four hours.

My friend and I are sitting at our something-similar-to-a-desk in order to sell ourselves. Literally. Not our bodies (yet, but rent-day is approaching so who knows what’s next?), but something equally valuable: our time. Hours, days, weeks of our lives poured into the big cauldron of the job search. Hopelessly pushing the rock up to the peak just for watching it roll back again. Incessantly (Yes, I LOVE ADVERBS. So what?!).

She is a photographer, I am something in process. She is editing her portfolio, I’m writing this post and complaining. Typical behaviour of a Generation What(?!).

Ombra and Prue, our black cats, are the lucky ones. No doubt.

Once upon a time, the Generation X claimed its right to exist in this crazy world. Mainly giving birth and buying stuff, but who the hell are we to judge our parents?(Amuse me and forget for a second that it’s exaclty the reason why we are alive. It’s our duty, so to speak. Forget it. For a second). Later on it was the turn of another cult, the Generation Z , our little sisters and brothers born in the rise of a new millennium. Their is the social media universe, their is Soundcloud, their the gadgets of a new connected and really really really exposed new society. Fluidity, availability, networks of streams of consciousness, contouring, Kardashians, crop tops and Snapchat.

Fair enough. It’s the Generation Z, born and raised by streaming and I-Pads. Steve Jobs instead of Myagi. Netflix instead of the struggle to download a video on Youtube with a LAN. We can romanticise our glorious past as much as we want, but the truth is that we, the bastards sons of Ned Stark, know nothing. We dont’ belong to anything.

We are the children of a crisis (someone dared to define us Generation Y, Millennials, but no one really knows what that means. Non even Wikipedia:

There are no precise dates for when this cohort starts or ends.

Very reassuring, thank you very much.

We are the children of a crisis. Children of an orgy of crisis: job, houses, politics, values, relationships, language. Everything is fluid, everything is in transition. Everything is almost that but not that yet. And there we are, sat at tables in Starbuck’s, Costa, some fancy hipster cafeteria in the East London, with the only itchy company of our laptops (that usually crash or freeze or God knows what else while we’re sipping our soy flat white, trying to get as much caffeine as we can) and our broken dreams, refreshing job boards websites and embellishing our CVs with a surprisingly renovate stubborness (at least we improve our writing and storytelling skills, don’t we?).

We probably inherited scoliosis and carpal tunnel, depression and volubility. We grew up surrounded by teen dramas and romantic comedies and we’re living in the era of Tinder and reality shows.

We love the 90s but we never really experienced them as teenagers. We’re too young to be too old and too old to flourish in this overrated and depressingly underachieving New Millennium. We savagely looth vintage markets and second hand shops in order to be part of a generation we’re too young to belong to.

Nostalgia is our companion.

Confusion is a state of mind.

Hybridation is the key.

And then, silently, we’ve been swallowed into a dark hole of misinterpretation and identity crisis, too eclectic for a 9 to 5 job and not middle class enough to pursue a career with no shitty job aside. With no part time shifts at the cafeteria X, Poundland, this or that restaurant. Nando’s or M&S.

Anything in order to tear the Veil of Maya apart and see the light of wholeness. There is such a thing as wholeness, satisfaction, fullfillment? Maybe, but not in this drama.

So here we are again, a glass of wine and nachos, maybe a movie, maybe a sad documentary on Netflix. Maybe a night out to fill the void.

Tomorrow we’ll wake up too late to be productive and too early to have rest, as usual, in the middle of the routine as of anything else.

We’ll turn on the laptops and we’ll try again to sell ourselves in a merciless market of bodies, skills, words, time and hopes.

Maybe some of us will get an interview for an underpaid job in zone 5, maybe we’ll wake up at 5am every morning in order to be there on time.

Maybe we’ll smash it, who knows? But still, we’re too young to be adults and too old to be influencers or fashion bloggers or whatever the case.

She is a photographer, I am in progress, so to speak.

But we are in the middle of the rest of our lives, and I don’t know yet what I wanna do with that.

But I’ll drink to that anyway, because we’re also children of Repression & Suppression, our favourite Freud’s Defence Mechanisms since Ninety-Eighty-Something.