-an OD of Toughts-

Realistic Recovery: Grit and Grace Have you taken your walk today? I haven’t. It’s August, and if I get told to go for a walk and drink more water one more time, I swear to the ever-living god I’ll throw my phone into the sea. Then, of course, I’ll probably go on a walk anyway, because frustratingly, I know it will help my mood. And yes, I am dehydrated, despite my motivational water bottle with its smug hourly reminder.  photo by Lothar Baxmann Most good ideas are simple. But taking care of your mental health is hard. Well-meaning advice can be life-changing—or infuriating. Sometimes it’s like being handed a teaspoon of water for the house-fire that is your body, your brain, your room, the planet. They feel like a 2015 infographic: relevant once, now trite and overly earnest. And yet, the truth remains—complete fixes are a myth, usually a monkey’s paw in disguise. A life worth living is built from small but meaningful actions, often requiring more effort than you feel capable ...

  From Neighbours to Enemies We have become an aggressive, violent nation. This is not hyperbole. Concrete has swallowed the island, green spaces have vanished, and the result is obvious. Road rage explodes into fistfights. Parking disputes turn into screaming matches. Party hotspots end in blood. People murdered. People beaten. People snapping at the slightest provocation. Civilised behaviour has evaporated because Malta itself is no longer civilised.  A Day in the Cage Here is Malta in one day. At six in the morning, the compressor starts drilling. It continues until eight in the evening, joined by the staccato rhythm of a jackhammer. I close my window because the neighbour below is smoking cannabis, choking my lungs. Two floors down, another neighbour lights his barbecue as if he owns the block It takes me an hour to drive a journey that should last fifteen minutes. A double-parker blocks the road, tells me to get lost when I honk, and refuses to move. On the return tr...

 Right, so a good friend and a person who avoids mainstream movies suggested I watch Seeking a Friend for the End of the World . And immediately, I thought, brilliant, another one of those quirky indie films where everyone talks about their feelings while the world burns to ash. The sort of thing where characters exchange long, meaningful glances while a meteor is hurtling toward Earth. Normally, I would rather be staring into the foamy head of a Kilkenny than sit through two hours of people sighing into teacups. The premise is simple enough. In three weeks, a massive asteroid will slam into Earth and wipe us all out. Now, in most films with this setup, you would expect Bruce Willis in a vest, tanks rolling down Fifth Avenue, a space shuttle or two being lobbed into orbit, and about four explosions before the credits have even finished. That is the standard Hollywood recipe. But this is not that. No. This is a film where Steve Carell, usually the king of awkward comedy, goes on a ...

Right, let’s address the genius argument I keep hearing: “You’ve been telling us about this doom and gloom since March 2013. But it never materialised!!!!!” Yes, well done. You’ve spotted that the sky hasn’t fallen yet   That’s not proof of economic brilliance, that’s proof you’ve got the observational skills of a goldfish. Debt isn’t a thunderstorm. It doesn’t arrive with a crash of lightning and a loud bang over Castille. It creeps. It lingers. It builds up quietly in the background, like cholesterol in your arteries, until one day, bang, heart attack. And you’ll be sat there, wide-eyed, saying, “But I thought pastizzi were fine, I’ve been eating them since 2013, and I’m still standing.” What we’ve got here is the economic version of that. Successive governments dishing out freebies, cheques, handouts, subsidies, anything to buy a smile, a vote, or at the very least a Facebook “like”. And where does the money come from? Not from a magical tree sprouting €50 notes in Castille’s ...

A few weeks ago, at a music festival full of people who smell like compost and regret, someone asked me how work was going. Without thinking, I replied, “I’m decentring work.” Photo by pen_ash Now, to most people, that sounds like I’ve joined some sort of spiritual cult where we wear linen trousers and hum at sunrise. In reality, it just means I’m working less and lying down more. Apparently, this is part of something called “the rest revolution,” which is a cultural shift where doing nothing is considered not just acceptable but aspirational. Like a Rolex but without the time-keeping or the €20,000 bill. It is fuelled by trendy buzzwords like “quiet quitting,” “micro-retirement,” and my personal favourite, “lazy boy jobs” which all translate to I’m sick of flogging myself for pennies while Jeff Bezos buys another yacht. And they’re right. We’ve reached the point where many jobs demand more hours, more stress, and more meetings about meetings, but give you less money, less stability, ...

At some point, usually after a hangover, a breakup, or a speeding ticket, we all decide that it's time to become a “better person.” Whatever that means. We picture ourselves as less angry, more generous, perhaps someone who volunteers at a soup kitchen and doesn’t shout at printers. But we immediately run into a problem: we haven’t the faintest idea what “better” even looks like. Are we meant to start yoga? Hug strangers? Stop flipping people off in traffic? Nobody says. Now, the world is stuffed full of lifestyle gurus who’ll tell you to journal, meditate, juice kale, or swim with dolphins. But the truth is, self-improvement doesn’t come from reading books or listening to people who use the word “authenticity” unironically. It comes from doing . And more importantly, not being a complete arse . So, what does being a “better” human actually involve? For a start, stop being awful to other people. Revolutionary, I know. Try treating people with respect, not because it’s spiritual,...

The pounding heart, it starts to race, A brand-new mask, a different face. It hides behind the daily news, Shifting truths and worn-out views. The ache today’s not hard to trace— Just miles away from my own place. From where I’d greet the break of dawn, But now that road feels far and gone. It’s a flight that cuts the sky, Then dives beneath where eagles fly. On this long and endless ride, In a world that dances then tries to hide. It’s a flight that sinks, not soars, With rusted wings and bolted doors. I’m nailed against this empty wall— And now I barely feel at all. No, I’m not a hero, Not one with stars to claim. I’m not a hero, Just one more lost name Since the war went down in flame. I sleep in fog, in silver-grey, Where fallen trees just rot away. And dreams that chased the wind at night, Collapse before they take their flight. Oh, what a weight, what bitter luck— To trip just past the final truck. From all the fear I tried to hide, From all the pain I...