And I’m not talking about the ones that give you cheap, predictable jump scares or gory bloodshed or body-morphism details. I mean the kind of horror movies – very few of them – that make you question your own beliefs.

There are some movies that have been hard for me to forget – Longlegs, Late Night with the Devil, a short YouTube film I once watched called Portrait of God, etc.

These are the kinds of films that awaken something in you, that make you truly terrified of the situation you just witnessed. They open up your imagination to a realm you might have never considered before – they make you wonder if such entities could really exist.

The best kind of horror, I believe, is the one that makes you an active participant in the story. Not the kind where you’re easily startled by sound effects or special effects, but the kind that makes you sit in silence afterwards thinking, what the hell did I just watch?

A lot of good horror stems from discomforts that already exist in our society – real fears stretched into imagined but believable extremes. Midsommar, for instance, and its exploration of cults. Late Night with the Devil and its commentary on what fame and success could cost you. The Substance – one of the best body horror films I’ve seen – looks at the obsession with youth and perfection, while The One I Love takes something as ordinary as a couple’s retreat and turns it into a surreal story about identity and love literally melting together. Then there’s Suspiria, which dives into devotion – what too much of it can do to you.

And of course, there are the movies about devils, possessions, and the dark side of faith – stories that play on that unease humans have always had about what lies beyond life, or beneath it.

Humans have always been fascinated by the dark arts, by the biggest question of all – what happens after we die? Every culture has its own version of the afterlife, spirits, and curses. And it’s fascinating to see how filmmakers interpret those myths and turn them into modern expressions of fear. In a way, they’re not just telling ghost stories – they’re translating ancient beliefs into new languages of terror.

What’s common among all good horror is how it takes a very human experience – love, faith, beauty, control – and turns the volume up so high that it becomes almost unbearable. It crosses that line where it stops being “fictional” and starts to feel possible. It makes you push your boundaries of what’s imaginable or not.

Real horror makes you deeply uncomfortable – and yet strangely comforted. Because at the end of it, you’re just an observer. You can close your laptop, turn off your TV, and return to your safe, ordinary world where none of those fiendish things are real. You feel thankful for the separation. You’ve stared into the abyss, but only for a while.

And yet, most of it still comes from reality. A lot of horror is inspired by things that actually happen around us – political wars, cult violence, human cruelty. The Killing Fields, Threads, or even Get Out show that real horror doesn’t need ghosts – it just needs truth. That’s what makes it hit harder.

Maybe that’s the strange beauty of horror – it’s both a warning and a mirror. It disturbs you, but it also humbles you. It reminds you that fear is ancient and deeply human. That underneath all our progress and logic, there’s still a small, trembling part of us that believes in something darker.

And maybe that’s why we keep watching. Because horror doesn’t just scare us – it reminds us we’re alive enough to be scared.

I’ve been thinking lately about malls.

Not the ones we used to hang out in as teenagers — the ones that smelled of vanilla body spray and food court pizza — but the algorithmic kind. The kind we now carry in our pockets. The kind that doesn’t smell like anything, because it’s designed to make you forget where you are entirely. Instagram, for example.

There was a time when Instagram felt like a gallery wall for moments. Sunsets. Dogs. Coffee. Now, it feels more like a glossy storefront. And I can’t help but wonder — what if it keeps evolving into something much darker? What if, years down the line, it becomes indistinguishable from a shopping mall — segregating its users into two sharply defined roles: creators and consumers? And what if those consumers — us — are asked to pay a premium to access the feeds of our favorite creators, the same way we shell out for brands we wear?

At first, it would seem harmless. A $10 monthly subscription to follow someone you really love. A dollar to like. Another for early access to a story drop. A few rupees for a reel that makes you laugh during lunch. You wouldn’t even notice it — just as you didn’t notice when your feed went from spontaneous photos to polished content calendars. From raw life to reels that feel like ad campaigns.

But that’s how it begins. That’s how capitalisation creeps in: quietly, with a smile.

Two Classes: Creators and Consumers

Instagram has always had a divide. But it’s soft, implied. Influencers get the reach. Consumers get the scroll. But what happens when that divide becomes formalized? Like in a mall, where stores are categorized by price point, layout, and footfall — Instagram too could start ranking people based on their profit potential.

Creators become brands. Consumers become wallets.

And those wallets? They’ll need to pay for access. A future where your favorite content creator isn’t just someone you follow — they’re a monthly subscription. A digital showroom you can’t enter without a ticket.

Some creators might become “luxury” — exclusive, paywalled, aesthetic, with good transitions and editing. Others, “mass-market” — clickbaity, repetitive, algorithm-hungry. The rich get better content. The rest of us get the leftover dopamine.

The Algorithm Becomes a Landlord

In this version of Instagram, the algorithm isn’t just a curator — it’s a landlord. It decides who gets visibility, and at what cost. It rents you attention. And you, unknowingly, pay in time, in emotion, in data.

You may think you’re scrolling aimlessly, but every flick of your thumb is a transaction. You’re not just consuming content — you’re consuming desire. A body you want. A lifestyle you can’t afford. A moment you wish you had lived. And soon, even that desire will be paywalled.

Dopamine as a Service

Let’s not pretend Instagram hasn’t already figured this out. They’ve seen the charts. They know the spike in dopamine when you find a reel that gets you. They’ve already started charging creators for reach, and giving early access to paid features through things like Meta Verified.

But what if they turn the tables on you?

What if you, the consumer, become the next revenue model?

• ₹100/month for “close friends” access.
• ₹200/month to skip ads on reels.
• ₹500/month for “Premium Feed” — where you get curated, aesthetic, high-effort content.
• ₹1,000/month to message your favorite creator — just once.

Suddenly, your daily scroll becomes a luxury habit. Like drinking Starbucks every morning. You’re not just paying for content — you’re paying for a feeling.

The Rise of Content Inequality

Just like markets divide products into high-end and low-end, the content economy will fracture too. High-production content, crafted with lighting rigs and voiceovers and subtle product placements, will sit behind glossy paywalls. While doomscroll content — the kind that numbs more than it nourishes — will remain free. Think AI generated, voice over reels.

Sounds familiar? It should. It’s how capitalism works.

You can walk around the mall, but not everything in the window is for you.

You can scroll through the feed, but not everything is meant to be seen.

The Price of Connection

This shift — if it happens — isn’t just about money. It’s about the commodification of connection. About turning curiosity into a bill. About making access to community, conversation, and culture something you purchase, not participate in.

Emerging creators without resources might struggle to break through. Consumers with limited budgets might only get access to mindless content. And a platform that once promised intimacy and authenticity becomes another marketplace where who you follow becomes a reflection of what you can afford.

So Where Do We Go From Here?

Maybe I’m being dramatic. Maybe this is dystopia with a touch of caffeine. But then again, maybe not.

Maybe the mall-ification of Instagram is already happening.

Maybe it started the moment we stopped posting for ourselves.

Maybe the most valuable real estate of the future won’t be beachfront property — but the space between our dopamine hits, monetized at 60 seconds per reel.

This isn’t about deleting Instagram. It’s not about rejecting creators or blaming platforms.

It’s about noticing.

Noticing how easily convenience becomes control.
How quickly access becomes privilege.
And how quietly the things that once felt free start to come with hidden costs.

What we’re witnessing isn’t just a shift in platform design — it’s a shift in cultural architecture. A movement from connection to commodification.

If Instagram becomes a mall, it won’t just change how we consume content — it will redefine how we understand value, status, and even intimacy.

The algorithms aren’t just shaping our feeds. They’re shaping our sense of self.

I’d be lying if I said that some parts of Metro… In Dino didn’t feel like they were directly copy-pasted from my own life onto the screen.

Moments of freedom. Fleeting connections. Encounters that were confusing, liberating, and strangely comforting. Watching it felt like flipping through a scrapbook of my early twenties — except someone else had illustrated it, and Anurag Basu was whispering over my shoulder.

More than anything, it felt like a can of worms had opened. Watching the lives of eight strangers unfold across the metro lines of a city, I couldn’t help but unravel a little myself.

The entire time Aditya Roy Kapur was on screen, I found myself thinking: I know this guy. Or rather — I’ve dated him, cried over him, become him. Parth, the commitment-phobic, perpetually confused, non-risk-taker — yet yawning dreamer — is every young adult trying to figure out if they’re built for love or just looking for a reason to run. He felt like a neatly groomed, six-packed composite of so many men I’ve known in metro cities — the ones who meant well, but couldn’t quite show up.

It reminded me of my time in Hyderabad and Bangalore — cities that gave me space to become someone on my own terms.

I miss the risks I used to take.

The hostel curfews I used to break.

The people I met, the kisses I stole, the hearts I gently bruised — and the ones that bruised mine.

The hook-ups and heartbreaks that taught me what it meant to want someone without needing them.

The life we lived between deadlines — the friendships, the faculty drama, the chill of studio nights, the scent of library books we never finished reading.

Metro… In Dino unearthed all of that.

What the Film Gets Right

The film doesn’t scream for your attention — and that’s its charm. It feels observational, like watching life unfold from the window seat of a metro.

Some stories land with particular grace — especially those that explore the quiet ache of routine love, or the awkwardness of navigating intimacy in the age of dating apps. There’s something refreshing about how not every story demands a neat conclusion. Sometimes, the ambiguity is the answer.

Pritam’s music hums along in the background like an old friend — just as it did in Life in a… Metro — though this time it feels more like atmosphere than commentary. The guitar strums aren’t trying to tug at your heart. They’re just… there. Like metro announcements or a friend you’ve grown too familiar with to notice.

Where It Falters

As someone who writes stories, I wanted more grit.

Several characters felt like softened versions of real people — too tidy, too easy to forgive. The emotional stakes were sometimes introduced but not explored. One arc in particular resolves so quickly, it feels unearned. I wanted more wrestling. More tension between head and heart.

And while Basu is known for weaving multiple narratives into a single thread, this time the stitching showed. The transitions lacked the fluidity we’ve seen in his earlier work. Instead of gliding between lives, the film hops — sometimes abruptly — from one emotional beat to the next.

What I Wish It Had Done

Let one story remain heartbreakingly incomplete — because closure is often a luxury.

Let the metro be more than just a backdrop — a character who silently observes, maybe even intersects lives without ever speaking.

And I wish there was one narrative about a young woman navigating the city alone. No romantic rescue, no heartbreak — just her ambition, her solitude, her self.

In the End

Metro… In Dino may not be flawless, but it’s tender. It doesn’t try too hard to impress — it just invites you to feel.

It made me ache for a version of myself I’d long stopped writing to — and maybe that’s what the best films do: remind us of who we once were, when the city was still new.

My inner voice.
My true voice.
The voice in which I talk to myself — my thoughts.

I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand how this calling works.
How a certain string of neurons just… connects. Sends signals that somehow tell my heart to beat faster, my brain to wake up, my blood to rush — and suddenly, a thought begins to pulse through my entire being.

This calling.
This maddening, unbearable urge to do something.
To feel something.

Treading up a rocky, mountainous trail made me realise how loud this calling can get. How my lungs expand when I breathe in that crisp air. How the oxygen runs through my bloodstream and — almost magically — makes me hear this voice again.

The voice of my higher self.
Or maybe just me — with more courage, more belief, the version that sometimes disappears under everyday weight.
The last time I felt her this vividly was probably in Goa, December 2023, lying on the beach, looking up at the stars, breathing in the ocean air. That sunset felt like it belonged to me.

I’ll never forget what it was like to hold a hot cup of chai — like my life depended on it. Because, in that moment, it kind of did. I had just reached the campsite dhaba after trekking through miles of slippery, muddy trails. I’d fallen so many times.

Walking through that lush forest made me realise something painful —

I don’t trust myself enough.
Even to walk.

But when I paused, grounded myself, focused inward, held my trekking poles right, positioned them with care…
I walked.
Steady.
Naturally.

And when I finally stood there — with my freezing, almost numb hands wrapped around that warm cup of chai — gazing in silent awe at Mount Trishul from that dhaba…

I felt speechless.
I still don’t have a name for that feeling.

And maybe that’s okay.

There was a deep breath that settled in, an exhale that grounded me. My body at rest — even when it was aching and cold.
In that moment, it felt like the calling had been answered.

Like I was complete.
Fully present.
Not even a flicker of anxiety about what lies ahead.

And in all of this… I realised how much I’ve taken my life for granted.
This body. This breath. This mind that feels so much.

I’m insanely grateful I got to answer one of my calls.

I keep hearing it again, now and then. Sometimes it comes as an escape — a spontaneous trek into alpine meadows. Sometimes it’s as simple as a run in the park.

Or it comes as this blind, ferocious belief that yes — 
Whatever I set my mind to, whatever I give my honest, selfless energy to — 
I can make it happen.

The more I engage with the present — 
The present I am — 
Which, in truth, is the greatest present I could ever give myself.

A personal take on why ambitious female leads in Netflix India shows feel hollow, and what real, relatable ambition looks like for women building something true.

By the time I reached the final episode of The Royals on Netflix, I wanted to slam my laptop shut with a thud. Not because the show was suspenseful or dramatic – but because I was physically annoyed. Every scene with Sophia, the supposed genius, felt like I was being spoon-fed a brand of “ambition” I couldn’t recognize, let alone respect. It was like watching a Pinterest board cosplay as a person.

Here’s the thing: I work hard. I know what real ambition looks like. And let me tell you, it doesn’t look like a woman gliding through gala events, casually organizing fundraisers, and dropping words like “scale” and “vision” in glossy PR meetings. In real life, driving growth isn’t about curating the perfect event or strutting around in designer blazers. It’s hours of scutwork. Strategy mining. Deep dives into problems no one else wants to touch. Lots of going back and forth within variables. Stress. Self-doubt. Iteration. Conflict. Repeat.

That’s what hit me so hard while watching these shows – I’m trying to be her. The ambitious woman. The one who dreams big and shows up every day. I know how exhausting it is to fight for your space in the room. I know how many unglamorous hours go into building something meaningful. And that’s exactly why it’s infuriating to watch these characters be handed success without ever showing the work.

Because when you’re living it – when you’re actually trying to build a career, push through doubt, and still stay grounded in what you believe – it’s almost insulting to see a character “win” because the script says she’s impressive. There’s no journey. No struggle. No inner fire that you can actually feel. Just vibes and voiceovers.

Characters like Dimple from Mismatched or Sophia from The Royals are exactly this. We’re told they’re brilliant. We’re told they’re revolutionary. We’re told everyone wants to hire them, marry them, or be them. But what do we see?

Not much.

And the deeper I looked, the clearer it became:

These women aren’t characters. They’re concepts.

They’ve been written like checkboxes on a pitch deck.

✅ Ambitious

✅ Doesn’t care about what people think

✅ Super hot but emotionally unavailable

✅ Stands for female empowerment™

✅ “Complicated” (read: not likeable)

It’s the kind of writing that thinks it’s giving us layered, feminist icons – but actually gives us cardboard cutouts with good styling and hollow motivations.

The truth is, these women aren’t written with care. They’re crafted to be admired, not understood. They don’t get room to grow, reflect, or even struggle in a way that feels authentic. They’re never really shown being passionate. Their goals are vague. Their success is assumed. And their emotional arcs? Basically nonexistent.

What’s worse is how out of touch this all feels with the life of the average Indian woman.

Let’s be real – ambition in India is never that clean.

It’s messy. It’s exhausting. It’s full of tension: family pressure, societal judgment, financial limitations, internal guilt, and years of unlearning, thought spirals and the consuming need to break free from this cusp of the next big thing you’re standing at and…the restlessness. It’s ALL of that and much more.

But these shows act like ambition is just a lifestyle aesthetic. As if wanting to succeed is as simple as declaring it out loud and wearing a power blazer with a sleek ponytail and throwing sharp surface level comebacks.

Oh and the “You don’t know how hard it is for me” monologue. That’s it- it’s all tell and no show!

So when the average woman watches a character like Sophia or Dimple, there’s nothing real to relate to. No stakes. No vulnerability. No truth.

And instead of inspiring, these characters come off as cold. Self-absorbed. Emotionally stunted. Overhyped. And worst of all? Boring. Which is why they end up being widely disliked, even though they were clearly intended to be aspirational.

Meanwhile, guess who we do end up connecting with?

The male lead.

Because ironically, it’s the guy who often gets the emotional depth and character arc these women are denied.

Rishi in Mismatched, for instance, is patient, vulnerable, emotionally mature, and deeply felt. You understand his motivations. You feel his heartbreak. You see him evolve. Same with male leads in other shows – the men are allowed to mess up, reflect, grow, fall in love, screw up again, and still be likeable. They’re written as people, not PR stunts.

Compare that to someone like Kim Wexler from Better Call Saul or even Dr. Martha Masters from House M.D.

Kim Wexler though, she’s one of the most compelling portrayals of female ambition I’ve ever seen. She works like hell. She doubts herself. She tries, fails, tries again. Her passion isn’t this abstract concept – it’s something that bleeds into her relationships, her morality, and her choices. You feel the weight of what she wants, and you ache for her when it starts to unravel. And yet she never once needs a side character to remind us how great she is. We see it. We believe it. We respect it.

That’s the kind of character writing we’re missing.

Someone whose strength doesn’t come from everyone around her chanting it like a mantra, but from us watching her live it – with every mistake, every victory, and every emotionally devastating moment in between.

It’s wild that in trying to write “strong women,” the writers forget that strength isn’t about being untouchable – it’s about being human. Real women cry. They fail. They want things so badly it makes them reckless. They hustle. They burn out. They reflect. They rebuild.

Look at Fleabag, look at Shefali Shah in Delhi Crime. These women aren’t aspirational because they’re flawless. They’re aspirational because they’re real. Because their ambition doesn’t feel like a costume or a boss woman aesthetic mood board straight out of Pinterest – it feels… grounded and present.

And maybe that’s why I care so deeply about this.

Because I’m in the middle of becoming someone. And every day, I wrestle with self-doubt, perfectionism, failure, and the pressure to prove that I deserve to be here. So when I watch these shows, I don’t want a hollow girlboss with perfect hair. I want someone who reflects what it actually takes. Who bleeds for what she loves. Who cracks sometimes. Who gets back up to solve problems after a mental breakdown and yet hold conversations without a shaky voice.

Because that woman?

She’s not just ambitious.

She’s alive.

And I so deeply hope we get to see real women of substance on screen someday too. The ones we root for right from the beginning till the end, the ones who make us a part of their story.

I had a tough day and to calm my senses down, I went on a run with my favourite early 2000s music blaring in my ears.

While running and deeply immersing myself in the music…I felt this sudden, overwhelming urge to write about the women in my childhood whose songs now make me feel so seen. It’s like they’re older sisters, whispering the exact words I need to hear in this moment. Words I didn’t know I needed, but now cling to.

That’s the wild part — how Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Miley Cyrus — wrote and performed tracks that, back then, were just fun to scream-sing in front of a mirror… but now? Now they feel like emotional guideposts. Their lyrics hit differently — like notes written in the margins of a coming-of-age novel I’m only now learning how to read.

Each of their songs — whether it’s Gaga’s fight for identity, Miley’s rebellious heartbreaks, or Katy’s anthems of self-worth — are soaked in radical self-awareness. These weren’t just pop bops — they were cathartic releases. Artifacts from a time when young women were publicly untangling their emotions in real-time. And somehow, they’ve ended up giving people like me something to hold on to. A mirror. A map.

And that’s where it hit me — how deeply culture shapes teenage minds.

What we consume in our formative years — the music, the media, the mood of the world — becomes part of us. It informs what we believe about ourselves, what we expect from love, how we measure strength, and how we bounce back from pain.

Back then, the culture I grew up in was imperfect, raw, loud, and confused — just like me. The pop stars of the 2000s and early 2010s weren’t fully put together either. And maybe that’s why I trusted them.

They weren’t “relatable” in the polished sense we see now — they were relatable because they were real. Messy. Feeling everything out loud. And in doing that, they gave me permission to feel too.

I Get These Songs Now. I Didn’t Before.

When I was younger, I sang along to Demi Lovato’s “Skyscraper”, Katy Perry’s “Part of Me”, or Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” without really knowing what those lyrics meant. I just liked the vibe. But now, after heartbreaks, wins, identity crises, shifting cities, jobs, and relationships — I get them.

I understand what Miley meant in “Wrecking Ball”, what Justin Timberlake was reflecting on in “Mirrors”, and even what Tove Lo captured in “Talking Body” — the carelessness, thrill, and loneliness that modern dating carries.

These songs grew up with me. And in some strange way, they knew who I’d become before I did.

Pop Then vs Pop Now — What Changed?

There was something raw and awkwardly honest about pop music back then. Artists weren’t afraid to be a little messy, a little dramatic, a little too much. And maybe that’s why we felt so connected. They weren’t trying to be cool — they were trying to survive growing up.

Pop culture today feels different. It’s slicker, faster, more curated — and while I love the evolution, I miss the imperfections. I miss when a song felt like a page torn from someone’s diary.

Even now, when I meet teens, there’s something that quietly breaks my heart: everyone seems to be in such a rush to grow up. To get somewhere. To have a plan. To become a brand.

And I want to tell them — it’s okay to just be where you are.

Because once you’re out of those years, you’ll realize school and teenage life were, in their own weird way, some of the best chapters. The drama, the intensity, the heartbreaks that felt world-ending — they’re part of what makes life feel like life.

But teens today? They’re hyper-aware. And maybe that’s the effect of TikTok, algorithms, aesthetic culture, or even the K-pop wave that’s taken over India and much of the world.

A Note on the K-Pop Era (Which Deserves Its Own Essay, Honestly)

While I’ll write about this in depth someday, I can’t ignore how K-pop has redefined what pop obsession looks like. The fandoms are intense. The loyalty is unreal. The styling, the storytelling, the personalities — it’s a full-fledged universe.

And maybe that’s what’s different now. Music isn’t just music anymore. It’s a lifestyle. It’s content. It’s reels, edits, fancams, merch drops. There’s no just listening. There’s performing your love for an artist online — constantly.

And I wonder — do teens today ever get the chance to just sit with a song quietly? To have it play on repeat in their room, with their head against the wall, just feeling?

Because I did. And those quiet moments changed me.

These Songs Were My Safe Place

I think that’s why these songs — the ones from my teenage years — still bring me so much comfort.

They’ve followed me from one home to another, one city to the next. Through every school change, identity shift, low phase, and reinvention.

They remind me of my 12-year-old self — the girl who was full of hope, curiosity, drive, and wonder. Who hadn’t been burned yet. Who still believed she could be everything. And somehow, she still lives in me.

So when I feel lost, unmotivated, low, or just confused about who I am becoming — I return to them.

To the artists who unknowingly mentored me through melody.
To the lyrics that once sounded catchy, but now feel prophetic.
To the songs that didn’t just raise me — they kept me.

I sat back at my desk, adjusted my shoulders, and leaned in — curious — towards the conversation my professor had just sparked in class.

“Have you ever noticed how we all look for villains in our lives? We tend to find people — or sometimes, situations — to blame for our lack of awareness or inaction. When you were younger — well, you are young — you might’ve blamed your parents. If something didn’t go according to your naive little sense of self, somehow, it was their fault.

As you grow older, you’ll probably start looking for villains in other places.

‘Oh, I’m stuck at work. My boss won’t let me leave. It’s already 7 PM on a Friday night — he’s the worst,’ you might say when you’re buried in tasks, not too far in the future — after y’all are done with your MBA.

‘I’m sorry, dear, I forgot our anniversary dinner. This client’s team just sent the reports. I have to stay back. These international clients, they take life too casually — they’re the worst,’ your boss might say.

‘He always does this! It was our seventh anniversary and he forgot dinner. He doesn’t love me anymore,’ his wife might cry.

‘My parents just won’t let me be! They’re too controlling, never let me learn from my own mistakes, always pointing out my flaws. I hate them — they’re the worst,’ their kid — maybe a spitting image of you in your childhood — might say.

What do all these moments have in common?
Each one is about someone villainizing another person or situation.

So my question is:

Why do we do this? Why do we need someone to blame? Why are our egos so fragile that we can’t just let things be without naming a villain?

And here’s the other side of it — something darker, more insidious:

When we can’t find someone else to blame…
When there’s no obvious villain in sight…
We turn inward.

We begin villainizing ourselves.

Because there always has to be someone at fault. There always has to be a villain. We become the villain in our own story.

This isn’t just you. Most of you grew up watching this, learning this.
In moral science classes or childhood stories, you were taught that there’s always good and evil. Black and white. Right and wrong.
And the ones who do “wrong”… are the villains.

But did anyone ever teach you what “doing wrong” even means?

How would a kid know what’s right or wrong without ever being taught how it feels?

How in seven hells are we supposed to know what “right” is supposed to feel like, to even tell it apart from “wrong”?

The questions lingered like smoke from a chimney in class. Obvious, and hard to inhale.

Maybe this ambiguity causes the lack of awareness.
Maybe that’s why we create villains in our heads.
Because when something doesn’t go according to our personal plot — where we’re obviously the hero — then someone must be the villain.

I just wish we were taught — or at least nudged — to think more about how we even define right and wrong.
Or better yet, to realize that it’s okay to not know sometimes. To let situations be for what they are.

But how would you have ever known? for the imagination of a child is the purest energy that exists, and according to it, life was always a movie.

But sadly, life is a drama, thriller, comedy, romance, and what not. We don’t need to assign a genre to every scene.
Characters just… exist.

There’s no villain.
No hero.
No heroine.
Only you — the viewer.

Minimalism, branding, and the Pinterest-ization of taste have drained colour from our lives. Here’s why the world feels muted — and what it says about us.

Today, I stumbled upon a graph (From a UK 2020 study) that mapped the saturation of pixels across photographs from the 1900s to 2020s. It showed something I’ve been feeling for a while but hadn’t put into words: the world is literally losing colour.

If you’ve ever compared a McDonald’s from 2009 to a McDonald’s in 2025, you’ll see it immediately. What was once a bright, unapologetic burst of reds and yellows is now… muted beiges, slate greys, and polite hints of maroon. It’s not just fast food chains. Look at the cars in traffic. Once a parade of colors — bright blues, candy apple reds, sunny yellows — now a funeral procession of white, gray, black, and maybe, if you’re lucky, a muted navy.

This isn’t a coincidence. It’s a shift.
And it says a lot about us.

1. The Pinterestization of Aesthetics

Somewhere along the way, we decided everything should be “aesthetic.” (And God do I have a huge problem with that word- as a designer.)
And ironically, that’s when we sucked all the actual aesthetics out of life.

The word “aesthetic” used to mean a nuanced study of beauty, sensory experiences, and emotional impact. Now it’s thrown around every time someone arranges three beige candles next to a grey laptop. Thanks, Pinterest. And, let’s be real — Gen Z ran with it.

Scroll through any Pinterest board or Instagram moodboard, and you’ll find yourself drowning in a sea of taupe, beige, dusty sage, and sad little minimalist setups. If you dare to add a pop of bright colour? It’s considered “chaotic” or “too much.” We’ve been conditioned to believe that “aesthetic” means muted, clean, and quiet. Anything outside that is a design crime.

2. Minimalism Took Over — And Took Colour With It

Starting in the 2010s, minimalism exploded — think Apple’s all-white marketing, Google’s Material Design, and every startup logo looking like it’s been washed with softener.

Brands wanted to look modern, mature, and globally “safe.” Bright colours were seen as immature or cheap. Beige became the universal language of tastefulness.

McDonald’s isn’t alone. Almost every fast-food chain, mall, airport, and office space embraced the same washed-out palette in the name of “modernization.” It’s supposed to feel sleek. What it actually feels like is colour-starved.

3. Cars: From Candy Colours to Corporate Chromes

The world outside is no better.
Look at any street. Traffic has become a grayscale screensaver.

People now overwhelmingly choose white, grey, black, or muted tones for their cars. Why? Several reasons:

• Safer resale value
• Cultural conditioning toward “subtlety”
• Risk aversion during economically unstable times
• A subconscious desire to blend in rather than stand out

What used to be an open expression of personality — your choice of car colour — is now another “beige decision” made out of practicality.

4. What This Says About Us (and It’s Not Great)

This mass desaturation isn’t just visual — it reflects deeper societal moods:

• Anxiety and Burnout: Overstimulated by screens and notifications, people crave calmer visuals. Neutral colours feel safer, less aggressive.
• Fear of Standing Out: In an era of hyper-visibility and hyper-criticism, blending in feels like survival.
• The Eco-pretend Movement: Earth tones make us feel sustainable, even if most of the actual behaviour remains the same.
• Economic Uncertainty: Flashy purchases and bold choices drop during uncertain times. Neutrality becomes the “smart” choice.

Ironically, the pursuit of “calm” and “minimalism” has turned into this sterile, characterless environment. The same cafés, the same apartment layouts, the same beige sweatshirts — from Mumbai to Madrid.

5. Are We Coming Back to Colour?

There’s some hope.
Small counter-trends — like “dopamine dressing,” Y2K nostalgia, or maximalist interiors — suggest people are getting bored of living inside a muted Pinterest board. Colour is rebellion now. And maybe that’s the start of another cycle.

Still, until then, we live in a world that’s less Willy Wonka, more muted waiting room.
A grayscale world designed to offend no one — but also to excite no one.

In Conclusion:
Maybe it’s time we truly understood the word “aesthetic” again. Maybe beauty isn’t about toning down life until it’s palatable — maybe it’s about letting things be wildly, unapologetically alive.

Colour is not chaos.
Colour is life.

And it’s about time we take off our colour-blind shades and really…look.

The King’s Stag Company: A High-End Beverage Business Headed for Ruin

At the top of the hierarchy is Robert Baratheon, the current CEO of King’s Stag, a prestigious beverage company. He’s charismatic, sure, but his reckless, “work hard, play harder” leadership style is dragging the company down. His decisions, often made while nursing a goblet of wine (appropriately on-brand), are more about his ego than strategic growth. Unfortunately for him, his actions don’t exactly scream “visionary leader.”

Enter Petyr Baelish, the scheming CFO who wants the throne (or, well, the CEO title). Baelish is a master of corporate politics and has his eyes set on the CEO position with the highest share holding, willing to manipulate, charm, and plot his way there. Think of him as your classic “speak softly and carry a lot of spreadsheets” type, always clad in a crisp business suit. A corporate finance mastermind who understands the power of numbers and whispers in the right ears.

Meanwhile, Cersei Lannister holds down the fort as the CMO. She’s all about maintaining the brand image, and with the company’s reputation slipping, she’s working overtime to ensure that King’s Stag doesn’t go completely downhill. Her corporate strategies might be ruthless, but they are effective — after all, she’s spent years manipulating people to get what she wants.

A Family of Allies, Rivals, and Intrigue

Now, we can’t have a corporate drama without a little family drama, right? Enter the Lannisters, investors with a significant stake in the company and a vested interest in its survival. They see the ship sinking and are worried about their ROI.

Tyrion Lannister, the sharp-witted head of strategy, (my favourite) is all about finding solutions, though he’s constantly battling his own family’s desire for control. Despite his sarcastic humor and sharp intellect, Tyrion knows that business isn’t about just talking a good game — it’s about delivering results. He’s your classic consultant who knows how to disrupt the status quo without ever breaking a sweat.

Lord Varys, the HR manager, is the silent orchestrator behind the scenes. Varys’s “little birds” (read: office gossip network) keep him updated on everyone’s movements, and he’s able to gather critical intel on staff, leadership, and company culture. Varys knows that in business, knowledge is power — and he wields that power like a master tactician. HR, with its endless troves of employee data, is a goldmine for Varys. (His character just screams HR!) He can pull the strings from the shadows, making sure the right people rise (or fall) based on his secret insights.

As for Jaime Lannister, he’s in the founder’s office — literally and figuratively. Shadowing the CEO in all his endeavours (how he was the king’s bodyguard), here Jaime is more of his assistant, who internally resents him for the way he treats Cersei, their marketing and PR manager, and would do anything to win her appreciation.

Enter Joffrey- son of the company’s founder, Joffrey has a strong sense of entitlement. He’s looking to maintain his family’s legacy in King’s Stags, but there’s tension as he faces the reality that the world doesn’t revolve around him.

A New Hope (and the Next Generation)

Now, things start to shift when Ned Stark is brought in as the new Operations Manager. Coming from the humble (yet growing) company GreyWolfCo, a packaged meat business that’s making waves, Ned is the steady, no-nonsense type who believes in strong foundations and ethical leadership. He’s about discipline, structure, and getting things done, even if it means making tough calls. And though he’s not immediately drawn to the cutthroat corporate world of King’s Stags, he’s determined to make it work — for his family and the company.

Enter his daughters, Sansa and Arya. Sansa, eager to climb the corporate ladder, wants to work in PR and communications under Cersei. She might be a bit idealistic, but her intelligence and charm are undeniable. She’s ready to take on the corporate world with grace and precision — just as soon as she learns how to outmaneuver those who play the game better than her. Meanwhile, Arya, with a fierce determination, is keen to explore innovation and product development independently. She crosses paths with Jacken Ha’ghar, a mentor figure who teaches her the ropes of cutting-edge strategy and design.

And then there’s Rob Stark, Ned’s eldest son, who works as an operations associate. While he’s still learning the ropes of corporate life, his loyalty to his father and his sharp mind for logistics make him a rising star in the company.

The Threat from TealDragons (Yes you guessed it right)

Outside the King’s Stags office, a new threat is brewing. Daenerys Targaryen, the ambitious founder of the fast-growing startup TealDragons, is on the rise. Her company, a disruptive force in the beverage and hospitality industry, is gaining traction and is a serious competitor. Daenerys’s strength lies in her ability to innovate, her unshakable vision, and her connection to a diverse, dedicated team. With her dragons (read: employees) following her every move, she could soon pose a real challenge to the outdated leadership at King’s Stags.

The Battle for the Throne

As the company teeters on the edge, there’s one more power struggle waiting to happen. Joffrey Baratheon, Robert’s son, wants to take over as CEO once Robert steps down. But his entitlement, lack of experience, and reckless nature make him a problematic leader. The executive board— Baelish, Cersei, Varys, and even Jaime — are all firmly against it. And so, internal scheming begins as these key players jockey for power, all while TealDragons steadily builds its market share- and public appeal!

But what makes this corporate drama so compelling is not just the leadership struggles — it’s the characters. Each individual has their own strengths, flaws, and ambitions. They may be playing in a corporate office, but they’re using the same methods and strategies that have played out across Game of Thrones: alliances, betrayals, and power grabs. It’s a world where loyalty can be as fleeting as a corporate bonus, and strategy is the weapon of choice.

Who Would You Be in the Corporate Game of Thrones?

Here’s a thought: If you were a part of this corporate drama, who would you be? Would you be like Tyrion, always one step ahead with a sharp mind and quick wit? Or maybe Arya, innovating and disrupting the status quo with fierce independence? Perhaps you’re more like Varys, quietly pulling the strings from behind the scenes? Let me know what you think in the comments — I’d love to hear your take on this corporate Game of Thrones.

Here’s how I’d appoint some other prominent GOT characters in this suitsesque version of GOT:

Brienne of Tarth as the Legal Advisor appointed by Jaime, the one and only good decision taken by him from the founder’s office.

Sandor Clegane as head of security. (obviously)

Margery Tyrell as Brand Manager for the Rose Quartz Group- a luxury perfume brand.

Of course, there’s so much more that could be explored, but these were the parallels that immediately came to mind. I’d love to hear your thoughts too — which corporate role do you think your favorite GoT character would fit into? Drop your ideas below!

Final Thoughts:

This reimagining of Game of Thrones in a corporate setting is a fun way to explore the themes of leadership, strategy, and power dynamics in a way that’s both familiar and fresh. From the backstabbing CFO to the idealistic intern, each character offers a lesson in corporate strategy, making it the perfect mash-up of two worlds I’m obsessed with. Who says business strategy can’t be as thrilling as a political war for the Iron Throne?

If you liked this reimagined spin off idea, do leave your thoughts in the comments!

After a long day at work, I found myself in a quiet corner at a rooftop, simply watching the beautiful sunset. And if you know me, you’d know I would almost always have my earphones on whenever I am by myself, walking around a city.

And that fine evening, my playlist played this particular song- Taste The Feeling by Avicii and Conrad Sewell. And all of a sudden, it brought back happy, summer of 2016 memories… the feeling of sipping cold drinks after playing outside with my friends.

It got me thinking, how what I am feeling when I hear this song, is perhaps what it exactly wanted me to feel, in a carefully concocted psychological way.

And so, I went spiralling into this, sweet, sweet (pun intended xD) rabbit hole.

Let’s talk about one of the most subtle yet powerful forms of marketing: branding a feeling. Because here’s the thing — Coca-Cola isn’t really selling you a carbonated drink. It’s selling you the feeling that comes with it.

And the “Taste the Feeling” campaign? Oh, they nailed it.

This wasn’t just another global ad push with a catchy jingle. Coca-Cola turned a sip of Coke into a moment you could feel, and they used music (Avicii; may his soul rest in peace.) to do something most brands only dream of — become part of your emotional memory.

Let me walk you through it. This campaign is a masterclass in emotional branding, storytelling, and moment marketing done right.

So, what was the big idea?

Coca-Cola had been riding high on its “Open Happiness” campaign for a while — you might remember it. Big smiles, big messages, kind of utopian. But they started realizing that people were craving something more real.

Enter: “Taste the Feeling.”

The core idea? To humanize the brand. Bring it back to the everyday. Make Coca-Cola feel personal again.

Not this faraway, conceptual “happiness” brand, but something that lives in your fridge, your date nights, your everyday little moments.

What exactly was the campaign?

“Taste the Feeling” launched in January 2016 as a global campaign across more than 200 countries — so yeah, this wasn’t a soft launch. It included:

• TV commercials
• Digital content
• New photography styles
• Print ads
• Music (we’ll get to that)

The vibe? Think real people, real moments — laughing, kissing, dancing, sweating, and yes, sipping Coke through it all.

They moved away from abstract emotions and brought the product back into the frame — but tied to the emotion of the moment. Coke wasn’t just there, it was part of the story.

The feeling they branded

This is where it gets interesting. Coca-Cola didn’t just pick a mood off a Pinterest board. They went in deep.

They branded: the feeling of simple, everyday pleasure.

That tiny jolt of joy when you take the first cold sip. The sound of a Coke opening in the middle of a summer afternoon. That moment when your date smiles and you both reach for the same bottle. They really did moodboard the mood outta it!

It wasn’t about grand gestures. It was about small, universally human moments. The kind that feel effortless, but stay with you.

How did they come up with this?

Research. Tons of it.

Coca-Cola and their agency partners (led by Ogilvy and Mathers, my dream agency to work with) dug into:

• Emotional associations with the brand
• Focus groups and consumer behavior studies
• What people actually felt while drinking Coke
• Cultural shifts — especially among Gen Z and Millennials

They realized: People didn’t want brands telling them how to feel. They wanted brands to reflect what they were already feeling — and enhance it.

So instead of “drink Coke to be happy,” it became: “You’re already feeling this moment. Coke just makes it even better.”

Now, the music magic — why Avicii?

Okay, this is my favorite part.

If you’ve heard the song “Taste the Feeling,” you probably remember how uplifting and emotionally charged it is. That’s no accident.

Coca-Cola teamed up with Avicii and vocalist Conrad Sewell to create a track that could live across:

• Ads
• Music platforms
• Events
• Real-life moments

It wasn’t just a jingle. It was a mood. You could stream it on Spotify or hear it in a Coke commercial. And every time you did, it pulled you back into that emotional space.

Avicii’s sound — energetic yet emotional — was the perfect vehicle for this. It was youth-centric but deep enough to resonate beyond the dance floor.

How they rolled it out (aka: moment marketing in action)

Here’s how Coca-Cola didn’t just drop a song and call it a day: Instead they-

1. Created story-driven TV spots using the song as the emotional anchor. Think different moments — first dates, group hangouts, quiet reflections — all tied together by the music.
2. Localized the campaign in each market. What a Coke moment looked like in Mexico wasn’t the same as in Tokyo or New York — and they honored that.
3. Used real-time marketing. The song showed up in Valentine’s Day campaigns, Olympic spots, even during FIFA promos. Basically, if the world was having a moment, Coca-Cola was right there tasting it with us.
4. Encouraged user-generated content. People were invited to share their own #TasteTheFeeling moments. Real people, real stories, real emotions.

Why it worked

• Emotional connection: The campaign didn’t tell people what to feel — it reminded them of what they already feel, and made Coke part of that.
• Music as a memory anchor: The Avicii track became a sensory shortcut to the emotion Coca-Cola wanted you to associate with the brand.
• Consistency with flexibility: One message, globally, but adapted to local cultures. Smart.

TL;DR

Coca-Cola didn’t just sell a product. They sold a feeling — the simple, everyday kind that makes life a little sweeter.

By combining relatable storytelling with emotionally resonant music, they didn’t just market Coca-Cola. They made us feel it.

And honestly? That’s how you make a brand timeless.

If you enjoyed this breakdown and love seeing how brands use creativity to connect emotionally, I’d deeply appreciate if you left your penny for thoughts in the comments.

I’ve got more of where this came from. I am a sucker for feelings- in the right capitalist way, anyway. xD

- Written by someone who geeks out over storytelling, branding, and the feeling behind every good campaign.