Economists have interest rates, unemployment figures, inflation reports, and financial markets. The rest of us have far more peculiar theories. We look at nails. Hemlines. The way people dress. Fashion campaigns. The restaurants that suddenly become popular. The objects that seem to appear everywhere all at once.

We live in a time where almost everything is available all the time. Food, clothing, music, shows, inspiration, luxury, opinions, bodies, experiences. Never before have we had so much access — and yet desire has rarely felt this exhausted.

We believe we desire freely. That what we like comes from within us, like a kind of personal intuition—almost natural. We choose a city, an aesthetic, a way of life, and assume that choice belongs to us. But desire doesn’t appear out of nowhere. It is learned.

To those who insist on thinking when the world only wants to optimize.
To those who study symbols while others demand metrics.
To those who understand that legitimacy is not printed—it is built.
To those who work in the invisible.

The first time I saw the Razorbill, I felt something strange: a mix of admiration, aesthetic envy, and a subtle how dare this bird be more chic than a person? Perfect black and white, flawless white eyeliner, an attitude that reads I just walked out of a Scandinavian editorial and I don’t need your approval. A polished, almost silent presence, with the same calculated restraint as a Nordic designer billing in peace.

On any given Sunday, the temples of wellness open their doors: organic brunches adorned with edible flowers, yoga studios scented with palo santo, playlists of mantras carefully curated on Spotify. There, between oat milk lattes and affirmations printed in minimalist typography, consciousness has become a lifestyle.

“We are not told what to think, but how to overthink.” This phrase—a sharp synthesis of how media operates in the era of narrative capitalism—captures the way symbolic structures shape not only our desires, but also the boundaries of what we believe is possible.

From the earliest stages of human history, rituals have functioned as symbolic technologies—tools to produce cohesion, meaning, and social order. Long before algorithms existed, there was fire at the center of a circle. Bodies moving around it. Crowns, rings, flags.

This year marks a decade since I stepped into a university classroom—not as a student, but as a professor.

I was 26. Fresh out of my second degree in Graphic Design, I was invited to teach Editorial Design and Print Production at UJMD, my alma mater and the place where I had just finished a beautiful double academic journey in Communications and Design.

Sometimes ideas arrive in the quietest moments—on a random Tuesday when I’m calm enough to notice them. They don’t wait until I’m sitting at my desk, though that is where I prefer to be. My office is my refuge, a place where I can lay out the words like small offerings. But more often than I’d like to admit, I end up writing on my phone, collecting sentences before they slip away.

Life is a journey filled with experiences that shape and challenge us to evolve. Along the way, we face situations that test our strength and offer opportunities to learn and grow. Recently, I found myself reflecting on these moments after experiencing a personal loss. In November 2024, my beloved dog Milo passed away. His absence made me think deeply about the experiences that connect us all—grief, change, and personal challenges. Though difficult, these moments are universal and remind us of our shared humanity.

They say companies don’t exist to fulfill your dreams, but every once in a while, you let yourself imagine what if?…