Extra Ordinary

This is ̶n̶o̶t̶ a love song

The world’s held together by people
who never asked to hold it.
The taxi drivers, the night nurses, the half-dead
cashiers scanning the rations of the sleepless—
cold cans, cigarettes, condoms, painkillers &
pot noodles, scratch cards & sad sandwiches
sliding down the belts,
passed across the scanners
like sin & salvation in barcodes & remorse.

With loyalty cards on app &
the thundering march of the next great ledger
on the horizon—a tyrannosaur ID advancing—
the regiment of the next crusade,
beyond the sirens & the shopfronts.
The street-lamps outside
buzz like a bad conscience &
nobody calls it poetry.
We just call it Thursday,
downtown.
We never had called it a miracle,
unless of course we were being satirical.
We save such a term for those
who carve their faces into clouds,
cast stone idols in their great likeness,
& those below who follow close behind
that—the monolith
of the modern mirage.

And, I, beneath them
watch the miraculous blink in orbit—
the drones, the satellites, the plastic valleys.
I whisper a kind of prayer to the janitors,
to the ones who sweep up after
wonder is over.

The titans are counting
their sleeping hours in profit.
The workers are counting
their losses in hours left to sleep.
And dreamers—the poor bastards—are counting
in heartbeats, self-doubt, & cups of
instant relief with a splash of whisky.
We keep the lights on with whatever’s left
in the cabinet.

But I’ve seen beauty
in a shadowed stairwell at ten a.m.,
where a man in uniform hums
a love song to no-one.
His wife left with the kids—
disappeared to another man’s hard cradles—
& it echoes like something magnificent.
The gods go awful quiet then,
but the back of the bin truck still sings.

Nearly everyone wants a reason.
I just want to make it through the week
without the headlines chasing me
toward a checkout full of panic—
whispering tax hikes beside the bananas.
Fitting, I suppose, for a world
that’d gladly sell oxygen
by the litre if it could.
A century wired to a wristwatch,
unzipping itself to the free transparency.
The nude light entices the faithful—
scroll, scroll, scroll—
till the spirit gives in & dissolves
into the soft narcotic arms
of a Netflix numbness
& yet another grease-laden takeout
to curb the holy hunger.

If you listen, you can still hear
the city breathing.
A rhythm older than
the technic order, older than
the hall of mirrors.
Footsteps, crows, the clink of bottles
in the alley—the great
mechanical heart pretending
it’s not as tired as we are.

Everything’s neat because we kept trying.
But maybe the real alchemy occurs
when we stop… trying… dragging
our bodies through another week
of hand-to-mouth & sob-
stories.

At night, when the last train goes,
the streets belong to the wraiths again—
to cleaners, to lovers, to drunks—the ones
who still believe there’s something
worth seeing after dark.

Do they ever get scared?
  Of course they do.
    Though they say good things happen.
      when you turn to face your great fear.

Here’s to the lightbulb, then—
that flickers, but doesn’t die.
Here’s to exhausted eyes, still
looking for meaning, or
none at all. Here’s to the people
who keep the lights on.
Not for glory, just
for each other…

I think sometimes the world is running on a quiet sadness these days. The kind that hums beneath traffic; so constant we forget it’s there.

The data gives it shape. Well-being falling for over a decade. Depression & loneliness rising even where there is wealth & comfort. People are safer than ever, yet more adrift.

Researchers point to the same patterns. The pressure to be seen, & to stay productive. Connection has become performance; visibility a substitute for caring. Most people get through the day, but many move as though a small piece of them is missing.

And yet, from a small corner of Edinburgh, I’m taking pleasure in simple rituals. Lighting incense before I write counts. The scent curls slowly upward, like a thought that refuses to rush.

What keeps you feeling human lately?

With love,
Rupert Piers
🌿💀🌿