This world SUCKS.

Have you ever felt like throwing your phone out the window, turning off the internet, putting up a “please don’t speak to my soul” sign, and disappearing into a forest… but, like, a forest with Wi-Fi, because you still need to upload the episode? Welcome to this episode.

People often say to me, “Why are you always complaining?” or they’ve told me, “You see the bad in everything.” And every time, I have the same urge to respond: because I have eyes. And two neurons that communicate.

Today’s world is all about constant performance. You have to be inspiring, productive, slim but body positive, woke but not too woke, exhausted but available, committed but profitable. It’s the dystopia of benevolent capitalism. They lock you into an oppressive system, and then hand you a meditation app, telling you to just change your mindset. 🧘‍♀️✨ And don’t forget to drink water, kisses and hearts.

I hate the world we live in.I hate what it does to artists, to outsiders, to the traumatized, to the dreamers.I hate the pressure to stay polite while everything’s burning.I hate the gilded silence we call “knowing how to behave.”

But the weirdest part?I still keep creating.Writing.Composing.Speaking into this mic.Why?Why, when every cell in my body screams that this world doesn’t deserve my energy, do I keep putting pieces of myself into the public space?

That’s what we’re going to dissect today. No filter, no veneer. Not to inspire you. But to remind you that sometimes, creating is just another way of saying, “Screw all of you—only prettier.”

Welcome to Cappuccino & Croissant. Today we’re talking about hate, and hope. But not the sparkly kind. The gritty kind. The kind that forces you to keep standing anyway.

🎙️ Disgust: a chronicle of active rejection

I won’t lie: I’m tired. But not the Monday-morning-without-coffee tired. I’m talking about that deeply rooted, systemic fatigue we’ve been dragging around like a soaking wet coat for way too long. This permanent fed-up feeling that we’re supposed to spin into an “inspiring punchline” on LinkedIn or a pastel Instagram Story with lo-fi music. Because in 2025, if you haven’t managed to monetize your trauma or turn it into a brand strategy, you’re obviously behind the curve. That’s our current world: some kind of massive emotional shredder, in a limited-edition vintage filter, complete with a premium subscription to dissociation.

There’s this idea, super common, that if you complain, you lack gratitude. If you criticize, you lack love. As if seeing clearly today is an act of aggression. Look at all the messages we get, all day long: “Be positive,” “Change your perspective,” “Slow down, but remain productive,” “Listen to your body, but achieve your goals.” Seriously? We’re supposed to be at peace while being devoured by platforms, deadlines, and absurd demands. This world is like a cross between a Headspace ad and a poorly written dystopian sketch.

And let’s talk about what gets sold to us in creative circles. Creating nowadays means accepting you’ve become a content factory. It’s not even about artistic expression anymore. It’s about “feed cohesion,” “publishing frequency,” “added value for the community.” You’re no longer a creator, you’re a dopamine service provider. And if you stop? If you say “I can’t do it today,” you get shoved into the “not serious enough” category. Feeling lazy becomes a form of professional sabotage. Solitude becomes suspicious. Silence becomes dangerous. Even your right to do nothing has to be justified.

Then there’s the rampant ableism—this sneaky creature hiding under the rug of grand progressive values. That notion that “anything is possible if you set your mind to it,” that “success is a question of mindset.” Total bullshit. We all know certain bodies, certain minds, certain backgrounds are systematically sidelined. And the energy it takes just to “keep up” when you’re starting from an outside lane is already an Olympic sport. But this world just stares blankly when you can’t meet its Photoshopped standards. It doesn’t care, as long as you produce something exploitable.

And let’s not forget the constant pressure to “be strong.” You know how it goes: “You’re so brave,” “It’s incredible you survived all that,” “You’re a real fighter.” But you know what? I’m not a fighter. I’m just still standing. And sometimes it’s not a choice. It’s just because I haven’t found another option. We’ve turned survival into an aesthetic. We applaud people who are half-collapsing, saying, “You inspire me.” See the issue? We romanticize pain as long as it’s marketable. As long as it looks pretty on a beige background.

Meanwhile, the structures that are supposed to protect, support, and listen… they let you drown in silence. The current creative economy is basically Hunger Games with Wi-Fi. You have people starving behind impeccable photos. Published authors living below the poverty line. Singers self-producing incredible albums but forced to sell mugs to pay rent. And all you see is the storefront. The glam without the gulf. And if you talk too loudly about what’s behind the scenes, you’re bitter. You’re problematic. You’re “too intense.” Well, yeah. I am intense. Because this world is a gigantic caricature, and I refuse to pretend we’re in some rom-com.

So yes, I hate this world. Not just a little. Not in a passive-aggressive way. I hate it profoundly, viscerally, with the clear-eyed rage of someone who’s stared at it for too long. And yet, I’m still here. Talking. Creating. Stringing words together about the chaos. Why? Because that’s the paradox. This world makes me want to throw up, but it also gives me reasons to speak up. Even if it’s fueled by hate, it keeps me awake. And it pushes me to refuse erasure. What I have to say isn’t always nice, polished, or SEO-friendly. But it’s real. And sometimes, that’s enough to keep going.

🎙️ Creating despite the hate (or because of it?)

Creating, in this context, might seem absurd. Or naive. Or masochistic. Why produce anything in a world that turns everything into merchandise, co-opts every struggle, filters out pain to make it marketable? Why speak up when half the people want to shut you down, and the other half want to chop you into trending pieces?

And yet, I create.

Not because I believe in the beauty of the world. Not because I’m an optimist disguised as a cynic. Not because I have faith in humanity or found a life-changing self-help book. No. I create because I refuse to stay silent. Because even when everything makes me want to run away, there’s still this tension in my gut, my hands, my throat. A tension no yoga session or positive affirmation can dissolve. Creating is how I stop myself from imploding.

At some point, I realized that hate isn’t always a poison. It can be a compass. A raw form of intelligence. It flags what’s wrong. It burns through the fake. It refuses compromise. And yes, sometimes it spills over. It isolates you. It drains you. But it also lights up what we’ve been taught to ignore. And when you take the time to face that hate, it shows you what you want to protect, what you refuse to see vanish. It gives you a language. It shapes your aesthetic. It forces you to define yourself outside of the scenery.

So I use it.

Not to hurt. But to say what nobody wants to hear. I create from this calm anger, not the kind that rants endlessly, but the kind that knows exactly why it’s there. And I believe there’s something sacred about that. Because in a world where everyone wants to be loved, I want to be precise. True. Uncomfortable, sometimes. But alive. I’d rather shock with honest words than seduce with an aesthetic lie.

Creating, for me, isn’t an escape. It’s a refusal. A refusal to let this world go on unchallenged without leaving my imprint on it. Even if it’s tiny. Even if it’s imperfect. It’s my middle finger to all the structures that said, “You don’t belong here.” It’s my response to every forced silence, every polite humiliation, every institution that was absent. It’s a gentle but steady sabotage. A crack I keep carving until it becomes a passage.

There’s this assumption that art should be “uplifting,” “inspiring,” “positive.” But the truth is, some masterpieces were born in the depths. Nina Simone sang with her nerves. Alan Moore wrote against the system. Björk sculpts chaos. Frida painted her fractures. None of these artists waited for inner peace to create. They dove into their pain and molded it, gave it to the world as a weapon, or an offering, or both.

And me, on my own scale, I do the same. I take my broken bits, my failures, my anger, my sleepless nights. I sort them, rewrite them, make them audible. Sometimes I even manage to make them beautiful. Not because I’m looking for applause. But because it’s that or extinction. Because staying silent, for me, is dying slowly. And art, however rough it might be, keeps me in a state of living friction.

I never set out to create in order to soothe others. I create so I don’t explode. And it’s in that tension that I find my voice. A voice that doesn’t necessarily comfort. Sometimes it unsettles. But it stands, no matter what.

And you know what? I think that’s the real power of creation. Not recognition. Not buzz. Not approval. It’s choosing yourself. Again. And again. Even when everything around you says you should shut up. Even when the world ignores you, or reduces you, or slices you into digestible content. You carry on. Because hate taught you your vision is valuable. Because it tore away illusions, leaving only this raw, unmarketable fire. The fire that says: “You’re still breathing. So speak.”

🎙️ Creating is refusing forced silence

There’s one thing we often forget when we talk about creation: silence isn’t always absence. Sometimes it’s a trap. A silence that isn’t chosen but imposed. The one you learn when people tell you you’re too loud. That you take up too much space. That you say the wrong things at the wrong time, with too many words, too much emotion, too much truth.

And in this world—today’s world—that silence has changed shape. It’s sneakier. They don’t forbid you from speaking. They bury you under noise. Under content, notifications, trends, conflicting demands. They make you think you’re free to express yourself, as long as it’s the right format, right tone, right schedule, right vibe. “Express yourself, but not too much.” “Create, but not like that.” “Be free, but stay monetizable.”

So no, I don’t think creating is always an act of joy. For me, it’s a refusal. A gentle middle finger. A way of saying, “I hear you, but I don’t care.” Creating is refusing to swallow everything they serve us. It’s refusing to get digested by a system that turns us into obedient pixels. It’s choosing, despite everything, to set your voice down on paper, on a mic, on a stage. Even if it trembles. Even if it disturbs. Even if it fits no mold.

Because every time I release a text, an episode, a song, I fight against that little voice telling me: “What’s the point?” And that voice didn’t just appear by itself. It’s the product of a world that makes anything that’s not like it invisible. That stifles voices that are too fragile. That glosses over specific angers. That turns other people’s pain into folklore so it’s palatable to those who only know it in theory.

I create because I don’t want to let this world decide what deserves to exist. Because I’ve seen too many brilliant people go silent. Burn out. Get erased. Because nobody ever gave them space. Because they learned to shrink themselves. Because they weren’t “marketable.” And I’m done watching powerful voices die in polite silences.

So I speak. Even if it’s flawed. Even if it annoys people. Even if sometimes I wish I could just disappear. Because every time I speak, I open a crack. Not a revolution. Not a new trend. A crack. And sometimes that’s enough. Enough so someone else, somewhere, hears an echo. Enough for another voice to rise. For another anger to find its shape.

And I used to think my job was to make things pretty. To be “professional.” To be “inspiring.” Now, I believe my only real duty is to be honest. To say things as they come. Even when they’re not polished. Even when they’re brutal. Even when they’re ugly.

Because creation, to me, isn’t a shop window. It’s an echo chamber. It’s a cry. A beacon in the dark. Something that says, “I’m still here. And so are you.” It’s a way to draw an invisible line between me and you. Between everyone who doesn’t fit in but senses there’s something else. Another language. Another rhythm. Another way to breathe.

And sometimes that’s enough. One voice. One sentence. One song. One poem. A hand reaching out in the dark. Not to save. Just to remind us we exist. That we’re here. That we don’t fit into their boxes, but we still take up space. And we keep going. Even if it’s exhausting. Even if it’s slow. Even if it doesn’t pay the bills.

Creating means saying no. Again and again. It’s refusing to be erased. Refusing to be reduced. Refusing the suffocating norms that want us to speak like human PowerPoints or stay silent if we can’t sparkle. It’s saying, “I’m not a brand. I’m a voice.” And sometimes that’s all that stands in the storm.

What I make isn’t “content.” It’s an imprint. What I place here isn’t a product. It’s an attempt to stay human in a world that wants to turn us into optimized streams. And if that doesn’t please everyone, so be it. I’m not here to please. I’m here to stay present. To lay out my words, even if they chafe. Even if they sting. Because I’ve spent too long being silent. And that’s a luxury I can no longer afford.

🎙️ Conclusion – “Create, because staying silent is betrayal”

So here we are.I don’t believe in today’s world. Not one bit. I find it absurd, loud, violent, and sometimes downright grotesque. It makes me nauseous, it suffocates me, it wears me out. And yet, I still create. Not because I want to change it. Not because I think I can fix it. But because I decided I won’t let it erase me. Not without leaving a trace. Not without resisting.

Creating, for me, isn’t an act of faith. It’s an act of gentle warfare. An intimate resistance. A way of telling myself: I’m still here. I’m holding on. I’m speaking. Even if my voice cracks, even if I’m shaking. I create because silence is what they want. Because a creator who says nothing doesn’t disturb anyone. Doesn’t challenge anyone. And can one day be made to disappear.

I create for the people who were never given a chance to put their words out there. I create for the kid I once was—the one who wrote in secret, who believed she wasn’t allowed, wasn’t talented enough, didn’t fit the mold. I create because I’m tired of seeing beauty reduced to an algorithm and anger smothered by toxic positivity filters.

I create because I refuse. I refuse to settle for being “tolerated.” I refuse to be turned into a brand. I refuse to let others tell my story for me. And if I have to go down screaming uncomfortable truths, I’ll do it with style.

Yes, I hate the world as it is. But I face it head-on. With words. With carefully structured screams. With carefully chosen silences. With scraps of myself I refuse to hide.

And if you’ve made it this far, maybe you feel that same tension. The same refusal. The same fire. If so, you’re not alone. You’re not crazy. You’re not “too much.” You might not be creating to be loved. You’re creating to exist. And that’s already enormous.

If this episode spoke to you, stung you, shook you—then it was meant for you. You can subscribe to Cappuccino & Croissant on your favorite platform, or even share it with someone who, like you, creates from the crack in the wall.

My books are available in both English and French—some gentle, others more biting. And if you want to hear how this voice sounds when it sings or screams, my music is on Spotify, SoundCloud, and YouTube. The latest project is called GLITCH. No emotional auto-tune in there.

If you’d like to support this podcast, my work, my sleepless nights, and my elegant rants, my Patreon is open. There’s bonus content, behind-the-scenes stuff, secrets, and probably one or two way-too-honest confessions.

Thanks for listening. Thanks for resisting. Thanks for creating. We’ll talk again soon. And until then, remember: never let this world decide for you when it’s time to go silent. All right, take care 💙