It’s 11:45 am on a Wednesday, and I’m sitting in a small inner garden of a local park. I’m enclosed with a sporadic array of plants and colourful flowers. A water feature sprays across the small lake, and birds chirp up ahead. Inner peace has eluded me for much of my life, and yet this, my 1546th visit, may be the closest I've come to feeling it. Phone in my pocket, headphones out. Something rises from below - a release. No algorithm, expectation, or rule can find me here. I breathe out.

It wasn’t always like this. In fact, it was the opposite of this stillness that led me here.

1. Expectations of a human.

We don’t spend a lot of time being ourselves. From our youngest days we’re playing other people. A train driver. An astronaut. A grade A student.

But it goes deeper than who we measure ourselves against. As a child, you get lost in the identities that feel larger than life — pirates, doctors, princesses, astronauts. What about who you were before you were something else?

There are times you return, moments that erase the scaffolds of un-self around you. A sunset. A dog. Something shakes you loose - out of your intellect, into your soul.

2. Forgetting the soul.

You wake up in your late 20s. But the journey to your true self isn’t as immediate as waking from deep sleep. It’s slower - so elusive you mistake it for something familiar. Like the sunsets you used to feel. Now, even those feel like box-ticking.

Actually, life itself has become a box ticking exercise. You make sure the gym is ticked off. Seeing friends is ticked off. Not eating junk food. Ticked off.

Your expectations of self are like lead weights. On the surface, you're holidaying. Below, you're sinking. Life is, by the measuring stick you created, good.

It’s all a blur of excited colour. You’re everything, everywhere, all the time, at once.

Hangovers colour the days you’ve allowed yourself to have one. Friendships take place on WhatsApp; certain friends get in-person privileges. Family are squeezed in between an event you should be at and one that you don’t want to be.

You rush to your job every morning because you need to be doing the thing. Your boss expects you to do the thing. And, admittedly, you’ve found yourself in a niche, doing the thing. You’re not sure how you ended up here. But you had a strong hand in making it happen. And if someone tried to take it away, you’d defend it with everything you’ve got.

A 5.30pm train journey home, the rush to the station, the doors, the seats, the things you are told from someone you need to rush for. You look out of the window, the split second glare of sunlight off a building wraps itself like a warm hug around the train.

An infinitesimal seed is planted. “Is this it?”

3. Dismantling whilst building.

There was never a clear timeline, just a clear feeling. As you began pulling down the scaffolding of un-self, you realised: there’s nothing to stand on. So you started laying bricks. One by one.

Your algorithm has clocked on to your journey, spewing you healing modality after healing modality, spiritual insights combined with therapeutic speak. Like a sponge you absorb. And absorb. And absorb. You become a kind of orb - glowing with knowledge, light, and understanding.

Understanding. On the intellectual level you know. You know the niche was not for you, so you un-niche. You start thinking bigger, about your world, your country, your city, your job, your friends, your family, yourself. Some mornings you wake up exhausted, others, energised.

No one taught you how to dismantle scaffolding - or how to build yourself once it’s gone. You’re not used to being there for yourself. So you seek wisdom in distant places, deep imaginings. Like a boat dragging netting through the ocean - meant to catch trash, but sometimes catching dolphins - you excavate yourself and find a whole mess of good and bad. Wasn’t changing meant to feel good?

Your intellect - the champion of your youth - becomes your greatest enemy.
The brain, the heart, and the self tangle in a debate where everyone talks, but no one listens.

Expectation turns to excavation.

4. The bricks won’t end.

The shaky foundations of old roles are gone - in their place the bricks you’ve built. You’ve seen others build - and how easily they hide the sweat it took to lay each brick.

By now, years have passed - you’ve lost track of how many you’ve laid. The old life you once knew is far in the distance, an old friend, always connected, just not active.

A calm ocean washes over you - the kind you feel like you’ve waited your whole life for. Like trying a sauna or a dish you didn’t know you needed. This might’ve been the missing piece all along.

But you’ve been in the game long enough to know: “Knowledge” and “missing pieces” are never finished. The deep truth - and it is a truth - you’ve uncovered, is that the brick-laying never ends. You knew it the moment the sun hugged your train home. Still, you realise: laying bricks is sturdier than the scaffolding you once clung to.

Observing thoughts and feelings becomes easier. You realise: expectations weren’t external - they were internal all along. “Fuck what anyone else thinks!” you say, for the first time in your life. You said it once in your 20’s, but back then it needed approval. This time, it came from somewhere real.

5. Growth.

Your connection with nature has grown tenfold. Like a hot startup, you go all in - investors clambering to throw money at it. But instead of false promises and dead ends, nature gives you returns you never imagined.

You return to parks, deserts, trees, greenhouses. What once felt like box-ticking now feels essential. After all the bricks you’ve laid, nature provides the endless source for your self, your ideas, your story.

You observe how other people are finding their way there. Turns out that tungsten office lighting doesn’t quite nurture the self in the way everyone once thought. Friends dream of cabins in the woods. Gardening stops being a hobby and becomes something more serious. These roles aren’t projected - they emerge from the inside out.

You’re back in the park’s inner garden on a Wednesday morning - your 1,546th visit.
While the city hums in offices and virtual worlds, you lay another brick.

You’ll return again. But no person who dismantles their scaffolding returns the same. For it is not the same structure, and you are not the same person. Somehow now, you’re operating from a very different place. The place that is you.

The water feature sprays in front. Something from below rises - and releases. It has released. You breathe out.

Time to get to work.

Thank you for reading The Projected Self.

My goal here is simple. I observe life with insatiable curiosity, which leads to insights and reflections, which lead to weekly essays, which (hopefully) improve yours — which leads to more subscribers, more money, early retirement on an island, regret, and eventually… more essays. In theory, anyway.

This piece isn’t an essay. It’s not a poem. What is it then?
It’s a breath I caught on a walk after rehearsing with two actors at my flat.
A flicker of presence. A current I drifted into.

I. The Jump

I’ve just left rehearsal.
Something’s alleviated itself from my being.
A quiet unhooking.

I step outside.
It’s raining, gently.
I tilt my head up and let it flick my skin.
And I think,
This is it.
This is the feeling when something deep excavates through you and out.
Like an exhale you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Each step I take feels like the world is forming around me.
Not that I’m creating it - more like I’m in rhythm with it.
In sync with it.
As if I’m a penguin on ice skates.
Clean glide.

II. The River

I start to notice things.
Little things.
Not as distractions - but as threads in a web.
Everything feels intentional. Connected.
A visual orchestra, a convergence of reality.

And I think:
Maybe this isn’t a state we’re meant to live in forever.
Maybe that’s what makes it real.
Whats important is you notice it.

It’s not about being seen.
It’s not about doing.
It’s about that click.
That moment when everything aligns,
and you realise:
You don’t need to wrestle the world into shape.
You just need to ride shotgun.

That’s the river.

III. The Wash

This river I’m flowing down,
Even if it only lasts a few minutes -
It’s enough to know it exists.
And that it waits on the other side of honesty.

You don’t have to earn it.
You just have to stop pretending.
Stop forcing.
Just… be real.
And the current will take you.

Bad things will still happen.
They always do.
But they’re part of it too.
Part of the swell of entropy.
Part of the letting go.

As I walk, I feel porous to the nature of reality.
Alive.
Passing cafés and couples and laughter,
I feel like I’m part of all of it.
Not observing - belonging.
Not watching - being.

This little corner of the city -
Of life,
Of mine.
It all makes sense. Not as a conclusion.
But as an opening.

The air is cool.
The afterburner of my mind still humming,
And for a moment,
I am the world breathing.

I’ve felt a little aimless at times recently, and with the change in season I realised something: I always react well to spring. The sign of a first blossoming flower excites me like a kid finding out about the existence of ice cream. Colour, in my books, is needed after winter. But the love of spring doesn’t stop there. The light, at least in London, is soft. Unlike the winter light, it’s less harsh. And this morning felt like a warm hug from the earth.

Amid economic chaos and items in supermarkets inflated way beyond their taste level - spring doesn’t shout, but it stages everything. Spring is the moment a new shift occurs. But it’s not just about how spring looks. It’s about what it does to us. It opens us up. One minute I’m stressing about my to-do list, the next I see the sun outside and forget what I’m doing. I just... be. And like in Kurosawa’s films, nothing grand has to happen. The wind, the light, a fallen leaf — it’s all part of the transformation.

Spring doesn’t just look beautiful. It feels beautiful. On my morning walk I watched leaves emerge from the same trees that looked dead for months. Their small green punctuations whisper: I’m still here. There’s something about watching a dead tree come to life again that illustrates empowerment at its most visceral. Like—no matter what happens—I will grow again.

Nature’s wisdom is quiet. It knows how to break itself down and rebuild. Winter strips the trees bare. Spring brings them back.

As I sit here - on a park bench that’s very much metal but painted to look just like wood - I observe. A family lays out a floral tablecloth. A man walks past pushing a lime bike. A mum holds her child’s ice cream. Someone in gym gear is just chilling.

Everyone’s fighting their own battles, like a Samurai in a Kurosawa flick. Slaying their own problems. All of them need spring. I know I do.

Every winter I sort of wither - like a prune that needs a good gulp of electrolytes. For those of us who feel the seasons deeply, spring is the surfacing after a deep dive. It’s confirmation that, as much as it felt like it, winter didn’t win.

I went through a lot of life without really registering the seasons. I lived on cruise control — the kind that’s silently activated in a rental car, humming just beneath awareness. Seasons were something I lived through, not something I noticed.

“And what’s the ROI on a flower?”

But spring reminds us that life is cyclical. Like any good narrative arc over eight seasons. It comes, it goes. It doesn’t ask permission. It just returns.

Spring doesn’t just blossom flowers. It blossoms us.

I find myself looking up at the trees. Down at the petals. Forward through the ambient light. I observe more. I receive more.

Last night I watched the new Black Mirror episode—Hotel Reverie. A story about remaking an old film using new tech. It was brilliant. But somehow, I left feeling AI’d out, like I didn’t need more technology.

Spring doesn’t care about AI. Every year it returns. A force that grows from nothing and reopens the world. It doesn’t need prompts. In some way it is the prompt.

Forces don’t explain. They move us. And thank God, because we have enough explanations. Maybe it’s time we just felt something instead.

Because Spring makes me feel like I belong. And that no matter what happens, I’ll be okay. Because next year, it’ll be back. Like a reoccurring dream, but one you actually want to experience. It kind of reminds me when I go off path that there’s a jigsaw piece missing and it’s possibly the piece of me. And all I need to do is wake up and plug myself into reality.

I can feel the wind blowing around me. I stay still but its forces envelope me. It’s spring reminding me I am here. I’m really here.

It’s like the pure power of cinema. It brings us back to the now.

Spring is the same.

It’s a loud, visceral whisper that says: You belong. To blossoming. To colour. To becoming.

Spring doesn’t arrive fully formed. Neither do you.

It comes in figments, fragments, and moments. A tree here. A sunbeam there.

Everything is always forming.

Here is where I meet spring.

I hope you do too.

My first video was on Blade Runner 2049’s opening scene, an idea which came to me one Tuesday afternoon. The core thought is, “What if Blade Runner 2049’s opening scene is actually a test of the audiences humanity?”. It was quite a journey to get this thought wrestled into a script and edit, but i’m super proud of how it came out.

I’ve got a tonne of video ideas I’m working on, and I’d love to hear what you think of this piece.

Hope you enjoy, please like, subscribe, and all of that good stuff.

Not yet. But soon, AI promises to be certain about everything. No stone is going to be left unturned, no dataset un-analysed, no experience unexamined.

The certainty of knowledge inside those Britannica Encyclopaedias we all grew up with pales in comparison to AI’s ever growing knowledge brain. But how much do we need that level of certainty in our lives? What if the unease we feel comes not from what we don't know, but from knowing too much? What if true growth and freedom lies in not knowing.

Conclave follows one of the world’s most secretive and ancient events – selecting the new Pope. Ralph Fiennes character, Cardinal Lawrence, is tasked with running this covert process after the unexpected death of the beloved Pope. Having just finished reading Robert Greene’s “48 Laws of Power” I was primed to love this film - the constant public (and secret) shifting displays of power was not only amazingly directed but deftly handled by the actors. Those dynamics aside, its Cardinal Lawrences’s earlier monologue in the film that sets the stage for this idea of the unknown:

Certainty is the great enemy of unity. Certainty is the deadly enemy of tolerance. Even Christ was not certain at the end. (in Italian): My God, My God, why are you forsaken me? (in English): He cried out in his agony at the ninth hour on the cross. Our faith is a living thing, precisely because it walks hand-in-hand with doubt. If there was only certainty… and no doubt… there would be no mystery… (whispering) and therefore no need… for faith. Let us pray that God will grant us a Pope who doubts. And let him grant us a Pope who sins and asks for forgiveness, and who carries on.

Cardinal: Dean Lawrence..your homily has caused quite the stir. I don’t think anyone expected you to…

Lawrence: To say something interesting?

As the film progresses, it continually constructs scenarios that cause immense stress and disorientation for Cardinal Lawrence as a result of his speech. In short, by laying out an untested, unknown framework for a pope, this guy has totally f’d things up for everyone and himself. But this is the cost of what happens when you lead with not knowing. And what I love is how Ralph Fiennes plays the character with such a steadfast attitude. Despite this leap into the unknown, of which has come from him internally, he is still curious where it will go despite all the shenanigans. He, like us, wants to see the fruits of his unknown left turn.

Cinema is great at conveying moments like this. It reminds me of The Wolf Of Wall Street, when Jordan Belfort is about to leave his company, but then suddenly decides (whilst screaming on stage into a mic) “I’M NOT FUCKING LEAVING!”

These types of scenes are emotionally charged examples of unknown decisions we make in our own lives. Everyone expects you to do one thing. But the past is no better indicator of your next move than the future - which is to say people, on a long enough timeline are inherently unpredictable. What can make your life more entertaining - somewhat unbearably entertaining - is your ability to make decisions into the unknown. Steve Jobs touched on this:

"Everything around you that you call life, was made up by people who were no smarter than you. And you can change it. And you can influence it. You can build your own things that other people can use. And the minute that you understand that you can poke life, that if you push in, something will pop out the other side. That you can change it. That you can mold it. That's maybe the most important thing."

AI promises (and will likely deliver) a future without guesswork. Without uncertainty. That places us in a precarious position to lose one of our most effective traits—doubt. This is where Conclave offers a counterpoint. Cardinal Lawrence, much like us, is forced to confront the unknown. Who can be Pope after such a long reign? Who’s fit for this larger than life role? But rather than resisting the unknown, he leans into it. In a world of growing certainty, his faith is not in having all the answers, but in navigating the insanely unpredictable waters as a result of his decision. Conclave teaches us that growth is not the result of certainty, but the result of stepping into the unknown with faith—faith in ourselves, in our community, and in the mysteries that have yet to unfold.

If you got this far, thank you - and I very much hope you enjoyed it and took away something.

Films are never just one thing (unless it's a straight to DVD 80's action film), but there is one thing I feel is missing from films that play on the big screen these days. Sincerity.

Felt your heart spike too? I get it. In 2021, watching a sincere scene is only accepted with some sort of undercutting joke that it's not actually serious. Cue Fleabag. A flicker of Phoebe Waller Bridge's eyes at the camera assures you that what was really said wasn't real. Right? It wasn't. Maybe. Who knows? The moments passed.

The mid budget, millions-of-dollar-films that explore "the lives of some normal people who go through some stuff" has wholly disappeared from movie screens and now lives on TV screens instead. The cinema going experience, as battered as it currently is, is now pretty much reserved for the big budget blockbusters and tentpole films. The stories of these films 'justify' being on the big screen. It's not that you can't see smaller films at the cinema, but it's that at some point there was a period of time where life - or what was depicted as somewhat normal life - was brought under the magnifying, spectacle lens of cinema and explored with some actual money, actual actors and actual vision.

Think American Beauty. The film is literally about an everyday dude called Lester who goes through a mid life crisis. Hardly sounds like a story for the big screen. And yet, the production and scope brought the film to life in a way that I'd say has disappeared from cinema screens. Need a crane shot for these two actors just standing there? On it. How about a helicopter shot that reveals the expansiveness of suburbia? Makes total sense. I get the impression the budget of American Beauty only enhanced the seemingly everyday story in unique ways. It's hardly a surprise, then, that Sam Mendes later films have gone on to have 'bigger stories'. Filmmakers now more than ever need to justify why to put something on the big screen. I'm sure there is a studio exec somewhere spouting 'the big screen needs a big story!' (with a half smoked cigar hanging out of his mouth). But, I exclaim, (coughing as I wave the cigar smoke out of the way), clearly smaller, less obviously theatrical stories are worth exploring on the big screen too.

Back to sincerity. What really kicked all of this off for me was one of my OG favourite filmmakers, Cameron Crowe. There was a string of films in his career, where he somehow jedi-mind-tricked people into giving him lots of money to make stories that weren't action movies, space epics or big budget comedies. A bunch of kids navigating 90's Seattle in Singles (1992) rocked a budget of 9$million. A sports agent navigating a crisis of confidence (played by one of the biggest actors in the world) in Jerry Maguire (1996) (side hustle: imagine someone making that film today? It just seems absurd). And Almost Famous (2000), a sprawling story about a rock band on tour, with some big named actors and a whopping budget of 60$ million given the story. More on that strange budget size below.

Something unique, magnificent and rare happens when you throw this concoction of seemingly low key narrative, big bucks, some named actors and a filmmaker with something to say. You get sincere moments, brought to life in non-contrived, meaningful ways. I recently watched Cameron Crowes film Almost Famous from the year 2000 for the first time (I know…you can reply with hate mail). The film follows William, a high school boy-man (I never could place his age) as he joins a band on their tour so he can write an article about them for Rolling Stone. Along the way - you guessed it - he learns a couple a' things about ol' life and falls for a girl, Penny (way out of his age range), played by Kate Hudson.

But heres the thing. There's this scene in which William, having earlier saved Penny from an overdose, gets to the airport to see her off. As the plane leaves, Penny realises she feels something for the high school boy-man. And Crowe decides to pull out all the big guns. And by big guns, I mean stage the entire scene using a huge 747 plane. Someone on YouTube has helpfully (and originally) named the scene 'Almost Famous Airport Scene' which is found here (with a load of adoring comments underneath)

It took some guts to write and stage this scene where an entire plane has to be commandeered alongside another actor running in an adjacent building - when there isn't even any dialogue - just to reveal the inner thoughts of a single character. It's astounding, the effect of having such a small moment told in such a huge way. In so many ways, this is an entirely ridiculous, bonkers idea. More unbelievable than say, throwing 100 cars off a bridge as they all explode. That I can actually wrap my head around. That sounds like a justifiably big action movie thing starring The Rock. But this. W-T-F WERE YOU THINKING CAMERON.

This must have taken some serious convincing on his part to the studio. "Right, you want to...rent an entire plane for this scene where two characters connect with no dialogue? Right...and why can't they just do it within the airport? Right...and we need to time him running alongside the plane through multiple takes? Right…what the fuck?" The producers were probably sweating beyond belief at releasing another 50K as Crowe insisted the plane 'has gotta swing by one last time for that other angle we didn't get."

Even the music. The track was made by Crowes then wife Nancy Wilson, which is frankly the glue that holds this whole ridiculous operation together; capturing that feeling of radiance and melancholy. But that magic elixir. All of this has somehow come together to express something that can't be said, only shown, using massive filmmaking props that cost a boat load of money, time and effort. And it paid off. But it more than just paid off. It created a feeling that can ONLY be conjured with these component parts. Thats what makes it so special. But now, outdated and rare.

So whats on at the cinema this weekend? Spiderman 20, a horror indie, a period piece set in the 1700s.

Sounds to me like theres plenty of room for a story about, say, a single Mum who has to raise two kids alone after a divorce. Who moves from house to house. Who battles against the soulless corporate world to make it. Nothing seemingly big screen worthy, so let’s give it a budget of...20 million dollars. We'll cast a big name in the main role, and surround them with supporting actors who you're sure you've seen before. It'll be made by a filmmaker who has something to say, but more importantly, knows how to say it using all the tools of filmmaking.

That sounds like a film which, long after its theatrical run, will end up with someone purposefully cutting a scene of it out, and sticking it on YouTube because they love it so much.

Underneath, in the comments, everyone will be raving about how 'this is my favourite scene from any movie ever!11!! I swear it just captures (insert relevant vibe) so perfectly.'

And someone, somewhere, will be writing a piece about how more 'everyday, low key stories' should be told in bigger, cinematic ways, to great sincere effect.

They'll end by positing the thought that sincerity…was almost famous.

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Danke for reading, here is what I've been watching recently:

Sex Education - S3. Now awaiting S4. This series really took me by surprise. The young, talented, diverse cast nail this series. Plus, the acting, directing, and camera placement is consistently solid. Despite my colourblindness, I think the grading in this series is seriously good. I might be totally wrong here though.

Bleed For This (2016, Dir. Ben Younger) - Kind of astonishing true boxing story. The film meandered at times for me, but in doing so broke out of some boxing movie cliches. Miles Teller on form as usual.

Flickering Lights (2000, Anders Thomas Jensen) - As I was advised by my Danish friend Thor, this is a classic watch in Denmark. A couple a’ Danish gangsters (yeah there is crime in Denmark apparently) go and open a restaurant in rural Denmark whilst they lay low (dafuq?). As random as this sounds, the film somehow meshes the cruelty of a life of crime, with the care and attention it requires to open a restaurant. Also really funny in places. Plus, there is a young Mads Mikkelson who’s going on some real character arc.

On the horizon:

Petite Maman. Can’t wait for this to come out: