樱桃视频

The alleyway on Quarter Street fit Mrs. Kerrop perfectly. It was as if the gap had been tailored to her width, the lumps of dreadful flowery dress, her wisps of snowy hair. She hadn鈥檛 made it very far from the post office. The bell had cooed ordinarily when she slipped outside into the hot Tuesday afternoon, keeling over her periwinkle walker. There was nothing unusual about how she teetered aimlessly around its warm brickwork, until she paused to mold into its shadow. Scampering outside with another coo was Lil. It was the walker she saw first, then the alley it waited neatly beside. Reaching the tunnel Mrs. Kerrop had burrowed herself within, she slowed. Sighed. 鈥淲hat are you doing?鈥� 鈥淚鈥檓 fine. Just dropped something, see.鈥� Though Mrs. Kerrop could not point within her confines, Lil imagined the types of somethings that could have laid there today. A winning lottery. A banana peel. 鈥淵es, keys,鈥� murmured Mrs. Kerrop. Lil frowned. Now years into dementia, Mrs. Kerrop was simply a vessel for tissue memories, each one tearing and melting at the tip of her tongue. Each vessel ended in the same incantation: keys. By now Lil had learnt that playing along revived nothing. 鈥淚鈥檒l get them for you,鈥� she offered. 鈥淣o, no. Don鈥檛 worry about that, love. I can see them.鈥� The smell of wick hovered low as Mrs. Kerrop bent. There was an awkward shift of her good hip behind her, a few odd grunts. Lil waited a few moments, latching onto the walker鈥檚 handles. 鈥淗ave you got them? Are we safe now?鈥� 鈥淚 can't reach鈥� my keys鈥︹�� Mrs. Kerrop鈥檚 voice seemed to fade into a soft hiss. Then her body folded into itself like warm butter. Lil鈥檚 stomach dropped. She鈥檇 rushed鈥攕he knew she had鈥攁nd now this one never stood a chance against the spring sun. Rushed things wandered without proper instruction, and she鈥檇 forgotten to use paraffin, not tallow. It hurts to kill your darlings. At home, she tried again. With spare wax to light the candle, Lil got to work in Mrs. Kerrop鈥檚 periwinkle bedroom. She hollowed out eyes with a spoon and moulded two pulpy chins with bare hands. She shaped dough feet, lumps of sag and flesh, Donatello鈥檚 frown. When she was done, Lil couldn鈥檛 suppress the curve of her own mouth. The nose wasn鈥檛 quite what she pictured last time anyway, she thought as she dragged the effigy into Mrs. Kerrop鈥檚 periwinkle bed. The flowery dress suited this skin better too: Lil tarpaulined her body with it. With a small kiss into her hair like she did every genesis (though areas still needed to set), Lil whispered, 鈥淣o alleyways.鈥� On Wednesday, Lil took Mrs. Kerrop to the village square. This time, she made sure they locked arms and pushed the walker together, laughing at stories one had heard a million times, the other for the first. They did not pass the puddle of wax on Quarter Street today. Instead, they fed pigeons and greeted unfamiliar faces with familiar names and stood admiring the fountain in the middle of the square, broad and shimmering with鈥� Before Lil knew it, Mrs. Kerrop鈥檚 arm was already halfway into the water, fingers reluctantly dissolving from her palm. Lil scoffed. 鈥淎re you serious?鈥� 鈥淚鈥檓 fine, dear. I鈥檝e dropped something, see.鈥� The fountain was broad and shimmering with hundreds of somethings. Vermillion polka dots in blue glass, a fortune in pennies winking up at them. 鈥淵es, keys,鈥� murmured Mrs. Kerrop. Her voice breathed undulations into her reflection. She spoke to nobody; Lil was already halfway down the square, pushing her way into the craft store. Again. Lil had burnt her finger lighting the candle and scraped too much out of the stomach. The clump of soon-life was grotesque; the scalp, a ripe dandelion, while the body left behind patches of melted wax entrails as Lil heaved it into bed. There was a kiss. Then a pause. Lil looked over Mrs. Kerrop鈥檚 slumped eyelids, dreaming of nothing until daybreak. 鈥淣o more walks.鈥� There was no sign of Mrs. Kerrop when Lil had returned home the next afternoon. Instead, a faint tap-tap-tapping somewhere in the house filled the silence in her place. Lil swallowed hard during the search. She started imagining things. She saw a pale lake of paraffin on every floor she searched. In the kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, closet. She saw Mrs. Kerrop unlearning her words, free to melt in alleys or on walks. She saw another genesis, self-made. Self-possessed. Lil felt sick. It was when she reached the back of the house that she found the slouch of beldam sitting idly by the back door. A patch of fog in the lawn marked where lips pressed the glass. The thin digit tap-tap-tapped away at nothing. 鈥淧lease,鈥� Lil breathed, running a claw down her face. 鈥淧lease don鈥檛.鈥� 鈥淚鈥檝e dropped something.鈥� The figure鈥檚 voice was faint. Out in the garden a bronze sprinkler, tucked amongst the den of grass. 鈥淭here.鈥� Lil couldn鈥檛 believe she was having this conversation again. Her palms itched and she pressed them to her face, felt the house tilt with her mind. Swarming. 鈥淎fter I fixed you,鈥� she spat incredulously. 鈥淒o you think I enjoy doing this?鈥� 鈥淲hy can鈥檛 you just do what you鈥檙e told?鈥� 鈥淒o you want to leave me? Is that it?鈥� Mrs. Kerrop鈥檚 stifled breaths were her response. Tap-tap-tap at nothing. 鈥淪peak!鈥� Lil kneeled beside the slump, hands clutching the sides of its face. She guided it towards her. All she could see now were the eyes she had sculpted, how they seemed to only look through Lil, how they drooped when it rained, how they began to forget right after they set. They were doing it right now, denting and melting. Lil had pressed too hard. She scoffed, wiped away the cream-coloured sweat from its forehead. The brow was gone. 鈥淭he keys, love,鈥� Mrs. Kerrop鈥檚 words were quiet and heavy, dead weight clinging onto clothes like swamp water. It really hurts to kill your darlings.

A shift in time causes the sky to crack open pink, gooey mess seeping into the clouds. Somewhere across the road a dog giggles up water bubbles from prancing about the neighbourhood gardens. It's named Ladybird. Its coat reeks of fabric conditioner from Mrs Leanderthal鈥檚 washing machine. She often lets the dog in when it鈥檚 in good need of a scrub. Its cold paws latch onto her doorknob, dirt trickling down onto her welcome mat. It tastes gingerbread cooking inside. The sacrifice of entering colder weather after a few hours in an exhausted condition sweetens the golden biscuit from a wooden tray. A familiar lock clucks open, louder than it was anticipating, and the corner of its ears folds over. In its mouth hangs the weeping smell of new life perfuming the house with plasma bathed in dog snot. This newer dog has been baptised Spider by his mother. The woman picks up the babe in her hands rough as rock stiffening its frail spine. The bigger one laps up the clean taste of water laid freshly in a bowl, meandering down the throat, and nodding along to the rhythm of its stomach. The ceiling bears a purple tapestry with an unfamiliar letter. A choking sound blows softly against the floor, trying to raise it up, and crush all their heads. Someone has let a draught in for the living room diffuses cold air released by a cheap supermarket chicken.

鈥淎re we safe?鈥� Mrs Leanderthal says to a hidden figure, her voice still, and her shadow鈥檚 head shaking lit up by a candle. The figure still doesn鈥檛 appear from his rocking chair in the kitchen, but a grunt indicates his heart still beats. The two dogs bark at each other in whispers with their own secret conversation that the old couple can鈥檛 hear.

鈥淵es,鈥� he says.

A man knocks at the door three times, saying their names three times, and the annoyed woman hobbles to the kitchen to fetch her keys. The dogs can see the man鈥檚 face through the window: a stained glass portrait of a baby. Its ginger hair curls up at the sides where the tips of its smile push dimples into its cheeks. An eager eye socket appears behind them, one of two hollowed out of the man鈥檚 clean-shaven face. The bottom of its imaginary trousers trace thin lines in its design, naked legs twisting the body left, and right to get a closer look at these curious animals. The flatness of his frame casts narrow shadows up the walls where the white paint absorbs the smell of gingerbread. The dogs turn around to meet a statue seen only in children鈥檚 fables. They feel a joint rumbling across the surface of their small bellies, thick spit pours out their mouths, and with predicted animal instincts they throw themselves at the boy. Their sharp teeth ravage the thin frame trying to secure the perfect angle for a mouthful of dessert. Its spice penetrates the plaster through the red brick to the very foundations of the house. Crumbs fall to the floor, a minute sound. The smile bounces off the glass of a mirror too shy to meet the eyes of the gazer seeking its truth. Its fake shirt cuffs cut off its baked body of delicate Christmas biscuits. Three chocolate buttons adorn its torso in the middle of its naked body. It wears no hat for its bald head, but this seems unnecessary for the amount of washing it would take to get the crumbs out.

鈥淲hat is it?鈥� The deaf old man shouts from the kitchen, unaware of his wife chucking herself over the man as a layer of barbed wire if it were made of cotton, and he continues to eat his ham sandwiches. The dogs do not stop trying despite the old woman鈥檚 confused cries drowning out three knocks at the door. Only the dogs stop at the familiar voice calling three times for a mother鈥檚 embrace. The old man manages to walk out of his chair to the window where his eyes fall upon the face of a baby held by a younger man longer ago, he clutches at his hair, and covers his strawberry eyes. The old woman sobs over the mess in the living room. The man at the window goes unnoticed by all, but manages to let himself in despite shouting for someone to open the door. The party looks up at the sky cracked open a fresh pink, clouds covered by purple yolk as if it were leaking cadbury wrappers, and the houses across the road throw over their blankets of shadows to cover the darkness digging through pavement.

The mother dog picks up her babe on her back to run about the street, watched by children on their way home from the park, and ants eat their dinners. A boat sails past with the horn at full blast to deafen those small birds whose chirping inhibits its brutish stalking through the ocean. The air smells of gingerbread- the stale air of cottage kitchens returning to their favoured spice- but it comes strongest from one particular house. The bodies of both dogs harden at the wet wind, but the kind legs of the moon kick it away soon enough, and the hard paws soften as they traipse across a muddy field. The babe vomits up cold milk that freezes its teeth. The mother keeps her head loose about the air by letting her legs sink lower into the field. They speak to each other in a low pitch as if weary that an intent listener would be out to get them, even though the neighborhood has emptied everyone out, and all the children playing football in the park have been called away to wash their hands before setting the table. Weed-killer gushes from the clear sky. The duo walk with their backs towards a man following a bright light warming a stained glass window.

Jim spends his lunch breaks in the basement. I'm no expert on criminality, but I've seen enough clich茅 horror films to know below ground is below normality. Nobody heads down there to call their nanny, and nobody who is not sketchy goes down there at all. At the least, Jim must be conjuring a wild spirit or stealing pens. Perhaps the staff room tuna sandwiches put him in a devious mood. He can pretend to be my suited-and-booted colleague with a prickly but pristine chin, dazzling smile and a good story to tell, but he is a villain underneath the wool. I do like Jim. After thirty years of working together, I have no other choice. He could sell a stiletto to a stone, but when he slips away from the company, I gather my suspicions. 鈥淭here's Jim away down,鈥� I murmur, craning my head around my cubicle to invade Tony's. He loves a bit of movement as much as any sane man does. 鈥淗e did the same yesterday, and the day before.鈥� Tony grunts through a mouthful of pasta, the sauce splattering up the tupperware walls. 鈥淗e must need an hour of quiet.鈥� 鈥淚t's a silent office,鈥� I point out, gesturing wisely around us. 鈥淜eyboards clack, that's about it.鈥� He arches his eyebrows at his screen so his forehead lines scrunch like squiggly lines. 鈥淗e's strange, I'll give you that.鈥� I straighten my tie like a fella with a plan. 鈥淪hall we go investigate?鈥� He ponders so deeply that his lips pucker. 鈥淎ren't you worried about what you'll find?鈥� Before I can give a good answer, he gets up regardless and begins to walk. We have got to be quick-footed, not because anyone will swing their lanyard and ask for a hall pass, but because they glance judgementally. Tony makes a beeline for the basement door, shooting me a wink as he opens it with the ease of magic. The rickety staircase beyond the door creaks with the steps of spectres, blinking up at us with menacing indifference. Grease lines every wrinkle of wood, shimmering on the edges of gaping holes so easy to plummet through to an onyx abyss. If I am the dutiful protagonist of my horror film, a giggling clown or chainsaw villain is ready to chase me down to the death. If I was not an average Joe enthusiast of noodles with a dog named Snowy, that is. 鈥淲ell,鈥� I announce like a great declaration, slapping my hips as I embark on my downfall. 鈥淚f Jim can go down and get back up, what does that say about us?鈥� Tony gulps so thoroughly that his throat swells up. 鈥淛im has good insurance.鈥� Without flashing capes but with fine shoes, Tony and I tiptoe as we descend beneath the skyscrapers of dribbling pipes. Darkness envelops us yet ignites our white shirts so we become fluorescent skeletons, just as haunting as whatever monsters lurk underneath the main office. Somewhere below and not so far, a hissing noise tickles the walls like a thousand distressed rats. 鈥淎re we safe?鈥� Jim wheezes, tapping me a trillion times. 鈥淥f course.鈥� I think. 鈥淲e should go back up,鈥� he pleads, beginning to shake my shoulders vigorously as I writhe under him. 鈥淲e aren't really safe here, are we?鈥� 鈥淣othing鈥檚 going to eat you.鈥� 鈥淓at me?鈥� 鈥淎 figure of speech.鈥� 鈥淲hy would something eat me?鈥� 鈥淭ony.鈥� I lift one finger to my lips, the other pointing to a faintly lit spot across the basement floor. Between damp boxes of lined paper and lost dreams, a figure鈥檚 shadow arches over with sharp fingernails like a traditional vampire, cursing under their breath at whatever victim they have taken. A metallic, bloody stench steeps into the atmosphere amongst the beetles in the bundles of mould, and perhaps we have damned ourselves. 鈥淛im?鈥� we call in unison, clinging to the crinkles of one another's shirts. Tony's lip trembles over the words. 鈥淎re you safe, mate? Are we safe?鈥� The figure gasps so heartedly that their candle flickers and casts absurd shapes across the walls. Embracing the nature of the cat, he leaps out of his bent position with shivers flying through his body. Whatever we have caught him doing, it is fairly odd and surely clandestine. As opposed to sneaking after one's colleague. 鈥淒o you mind?鈥� Jim pants, clutching his chest as he regains his awareness. 鈥淚 have a legal right to both privacy and lunch breaks.鈥� 鈥淭ell your solicitor,鈥� I say, folding my arms with the air of a Greek god. 鈥淯p to something sketchy, are you?鈥� Tony hums. 鈥淲hat he said.鈥� 鈥淣o, no,鈥� Jim mutters, and after a quick ponder, he weakens with soft laughter. 鈥淐ertainly not.鈥� I glare at him. 鈥淵ou go below the surface every lunchtime and ditch the rest of us to, what, make daisy chains?鈥� Tony snickers. 鈥淭ie your shoelaces?鈥� As soon as the words slip off his tongue, they become fuzzy with their uncertainty. Jim's steady expression studies me carefully, letting a selective smile rise on his face in time with the world dawning. I angle my chin down, staring at the loose strands hanging off Jim's best-selling brogues. 鈥淩ight.鈥� 鈥淲hat is?鈥� 鈥淭ying my shoelaces,鈥� Jim confesses, kicking up one foot so the strings fall limply on either side. 鈥淭here's a lot of judgement on the office floor so, silly as it is, I come down here to practice. And, yes, I'm well aware of the irony for a shoe salesman.鈥� I click my tongue. 鈥淲hat's the candle about, so?鈥� 鈥淭here's no natural light.鈥� 鈥淒oesn't your phone have a torch?鈥� 鈥淚 hadn't thought of that.鈥� Jim tilts his head, still smiling mirthlessly as we stand in our tense colleague triangle. 鈥淚 can cross two laces at the start, but I always get caught in the loop.鈥� 鈥淒on't worry yourself.鈥� I shoot Tony a knowing glance, knowing well in myself that we know nothing much at all. 鈥淲e鈥檙e not judgemental.鈥� If only that shoe fit.

Syrupy spots jig upon the soil, pirouetting the breath of orange tongues against the cataclysmal groan, drone, snap and whoop. Lethal specks rasp their doom; gnawing muscle and limping pulses while I flounder in the Earth鈥檚 barren eye, naked in my blame.

Zip! I鈥檓 sprung around tree bark. The polka-dots dissipate, hacking phlegm smooths to song, and the scorch mellows to only within me. I breathe again, with my coils tightly looped around burly lungs.

They call me Treehugger.

Cackling and spitting, they press rough cuticles against my blade and squint for my reading. I oblige them, ignoring my peaked hook as it rakes shame into my plastic.

One dislocates the saw鈥檚 quiet relish, and a tumultuous roar startles the foundations. Oh no, I think dimly. It is angry. It is ravenous.

鈥�I鈥檓 sorry,鈥� I whisper to the tree before I鈥檓 whipped from the sturdy being and clarity vanishes quicker than smoke up a chimney and what was clear is c-clogging and everything swims but I drown.

Revving like a hospital monitor plagued by the flu; munch munch munch, the saw splits insentient product, price, as I watch it drip gold.

Then suddenly 鈥� a person yells with glee 鈥� and thump.

I can't feel the glory.

Somber, sickly, they zip, snap, and click me, while I鈥檓 watched all around, the forest鈥檚 doom seen by my duty.

I鈥檓 tossed to the ground, and too quick, the thud dislodges my conscience.

Light pierces like a cruel dawn, simmering like a biting rash with nowhere, nohow, no escape. Bony fur winds through the blades and jarring cries bloody the sky; they鈥檙e bounding, swinging, burying; what the earth taught them, what the earth would protect them with. They鈥檙e not fast enough. Fleeing, flying, foraging, it鈥檚 all they can do. It鈥檚 all they have ever done. But they aren鈥檛 fast enough.

Habitat after habitat, they ask, 鈥�Are we safe?鈥� but they aren鈥檛 allowed more than a breath long enough to find the answer. Hurrying tails, fangs, whiskers overwhelmed by the uproar, upheaval, uproot of veins, of ancestry. See the desperation slink into their bloods, powering final springs, igniting last provisions; like classic prey and predator; like everyday battles for another breath, sip, leap; like nature鈥檚 cycle. Like this fire is 鈥渘atural鈥�.

And the definitive truth, slamming like a child welfare worker鈥檚 door again and again, that: they will never be fast enough.

To outrun what pockets every scrap and colonises every corner. It鈥檚 a race, and they aren鈥檛 even listed.

They鈥檙e hurrying. They. Are. Hurrying.

But they cannot outrun greed 鈥� a candle which burns long past its wick.

A voice draws me to the emerald kaleidoscope above. The sound is like soaring鈥� and I feel the dizzying pull once more but this is鈥� different. It鈥檚 graceful. I find I wouldn鈥檛 mind losing myself to this.

Then, it stops.

And just as suddenly, the chaos tremors around me, within me, because of me, threatening to erupt. The tune could only ever be bittersweet at best, for I know, like everything I touch, it will not last.

鈥楪谤别别迟颈苍驳蝉,鈥�

I pause, looking around me.

A bird.

Silly creature. Why doesn鈥檛 it panic? I puzzle. I must tell it; it must spread word.

鈥楤颈谤诲,鈥� I say.

There鈥檚 a contented smile in its scarlet eye.

鈥�Bird, understand. You must fly!鈥�  

The bird studies me. 鈥�奥丑测?鈥�

鈥楾he sand has fallen,鈥� I borrow the phrase. 鈥楾here will be nothing left.鈥�

鈥楴othing left?鈥� The bird puzzles. 鈥�But there are things here. I see, I hear, I can touch, I can drink. Tell me鈥� where does it go?鈥�

Witless bird. 鈥榊ou will burn.鈥� I confess. I鈥檝e envisioned the candle from where it all stems.

The bird considers this. It adjusts its perch and surveys its surroundings. 鈥楤ut perhaps I shall find this burning,鈥�

鈥楴othing is to be done,鈥� I say. 鈥業t is too late.鈥�

鈥楽illy being,鈥� titters the bird. 鈥楾he trees are green. The rain pours. The dolphins play. We are still here,鈥� it tells me. 鈥業t is not too late. Not yet.鈥�

鈥楤ut soon,鈥� I say.

鈥楽辞辞苍,鈥� the bird bows its head. 鈥楤ut hope will come once we stop waiting.鈥�

Time isn鈥檛 measured by the hiss of a candle; I see time like the tick of a leaf. Like all, it belongs to a cycle. By nurture, or neglect, there is a choice on how the leaf will fall.

鈥楾颈尘别,鈥� I realise.

鈥�It has always been now.鈥�

Towering canopy dappled gold, purr of this bustling cluster of lives. It鈥檚 there. Everything. Ever. Now. We can still act.

鈥楤颈谤诲,鈥� I say, heat itching at me in icy bursts. 鈥�鲍苍诲别谤蝉迟补苍诲...鈥�

鈥榊别蝉,鈥� the bird stretches its wings, 鈥業 will spread the word.鈥�

I鈥檓 struck with panic unfamiliar to the usual intoxicating torment; it is dancing elation lifting me from the hard forest floor; it is taking fright because I鈥檓 finally seeing. All around me, they鈥檙e splitting, leaning, tumbling, thu-thu-thumping. A heartbeat. I can hear it. It鈥檚 a dying heartbeat 鈥� and it can be saved.

Bursts of magenta and crimson erupt beneath me, each babbling the hums of civilisations built from nature鈥檚 innovation, while above, splatters of indigo and tangerine flit in seemingly senseless rhythm with gold-dust at their toes. Spots, scales; pulsing, pouncing; these aren鈥檛 canvases that nurture our wild.

Yes, they鈥檙e here too 鈥� shining, whining, scraps of aluminium and iron, scratching at this vitality. Their time is almost past.

Until then, they continue to pull, stretch, and pinch this Treehugger, no longer a tape-measure with trees caught in the loop of my band 鈥� a tool, compliant in this self-destruction.

As I embrace each almighty trunk, it is with more than a promise. It is with a declaration of duty.

This is not the end.

When I asked people of different generations what made them happy, I expected different answers. I imagined a clear divide 鈥� different priorities, different lives, different ways of seeing the world. But the responses blurred together: family, music, time spent with others. For a moment the distinctions I assumed would be obvious deemed to disappear. Yet, we are constantly told the opposite, that generations are defined by their differences. Younger and older people are often portrayed as holding fundamentally different values, shaped by the times in which they grew up. It is a concept that feels so familiar, even convincing. But perhaps it is wrong. The more closely we look, the less divided generations appear.

Beneath changing cultural trends and shifting social contexts lies something more consistent, something less visible but more enduring. Both my own and academic research suggest that, despite differences in expression, the foundations of human experience remain remarkably similar.

A key similarity between generations lies in something almost impossible to avoid: emotion. It appears quietly, in different forms, across different lives, yet remains unmistakably familiar. In a survey I conducted, 74% of respondents of aged 13-60 identified spending time with family and close friends as their primary sources of happiness: 鈥渕aintaining your humanity through community鈥� . This finding aligns with the work of humanistic psychologist Abraham Maslow, who argued that all humans share fundamental needs such as security, belonging and esteem. Whether it is joy, stress, or the need to belong, these experiences cut across age, background, and circumstance. Different lives, different routines, yet he same sources of comfort and fulfilment. Of course, this theory can simplify the ways emotions are expressed by different age groups  For example, younger people may be more open in expressing their emotions , whereas older generations may have been encouraged to suppress them. But even here, the difference is one of expression, not experience. The feeling itself remains the same. In this sense, the generational connections are more common than we think, and suggests they need more recognition.

This continuity becomes even clearer when considering people鈥檚 core goals and aspirations. Despite differences in lifestyle, background, and even religion, the goals people pursue remain strikingly similar. In my own survey, 60% of respondents across ages 13-60 identified that having a career that is fulfilling is one of the most important things in life, suggesting that life goals transcend generational boundaries. These findings align with research done by psychologist Jean Twenge, which illustrates that fundamental desires such as success and meaningful relationships persist time and time again, regardless of one鈥檚 age. That said, such research can be criticised:  鈥渟uccess鈥� and 鈥渉appiness鈥� do not mean the same thing to everyone, which can mean they differ depending on age. Despite this, the broader pattern is hard to ignore. The routes individuals choose to take may differ, but the destination remains the same. What people strive for does not disappear.

Traditions, too, reveal this balance between change and continuity. They evolve, sometimes gradually and quietly, yet rarely lose their underlying purpose. In own survey, 71% of respondents aged 13-60 reported that taking part in cultural traditions is important as it is 鈥減art of your identity鈥�  and 鈥渕aintains a sense of connection and identity鈥�. These are not abstract ideas, they are felt in small, everyday moments. A shared meal. Wearing cultural clothes. Even the simple act of greeting someone. This reflects key ideas within the Functionalist view, particularly those of Emile Durkheim, which emphasises that traditions play a crucial role in reinforcing social cohesion and a shared sense of belonging. However, sociological perspectives can be seen a reductionistic, and generalises the function of traditions, overlooking individual differences in how meaningful or relevant practices feel. As well as this, in my survey, while some younger people (aged 13-30)  acknowledged the importance of traditions for some people, they stated that if the traditions do not align with your beliefs, you are not obligated to uphold them. In contrast, 90% of older people (aged 30-60) think that鈥檚 it is important to keep traditions no matter what, or otherwise you 鈥渇orget your roots鈥�. Nevertheless, the persistence of traditions suggest something deeper. Traditions endure not because thy remain unchanged, but because they continue to fulfil the same need: to connect to one another.

Even technology 鈥� something so often famed as the clearest divide between generations - tells a similar story. In my survey, participants across ages 13-60 reported regular use of digital technology for communication. The tools may have changed, but the desire behind them has not. This is supported by findings from Ofcom, which shows increasing levels of digital engagement across all age groups, challenging the idea that technology is almost exclusive to younger generations. This can be evidence for the Media Multiplexity Theory, a theory coined by  Caroline Haythornthwaite argues that using more technology as a means of communication strengthens interpersonal relationships. Yet despite this, many people have expressed a preference for in-person interactions, suggesting that the underlying desire for genuine connection without the prescience of technology remains consistent. This can be seen in recent trends, where even groups of teenagers, when meeting up, make 鈥減hone stacks鈥� where they stack their phones in the middle of the table to avoid getting distracted by their phones. However, this is a small minority and cannot be generalised to an antiretroviral generation, so, when viewed in a broader context, it becomes clear that the function of technology is a modern expression of timeless human behaviour.

In the end, the idea of sharp generational divides begins to feel less certain, and generational commonalities are more prevalent. Both personal and academic evidence point towards this. Across generations, people strive to seek connection, meaning, and belonging in ways that are very similar. While surface level expressions of these may differ, the purpose does not. Generations are far more alike than we like to admit.

Two years ago, I wrote a pantoum inspired by Maria E. Andreu鈥檚 description of her immigrant family as 鈥榬unning a relay.鈥� Though our individual aims may shift: my great-grandparents鈥� goals were different to my grandparents, and theirs different to my parents鈥�, each generation has carried within us the hopes of those who came before. The hopes provide the foundation for all we do and, despite shifting times and circumstances, the dream my ancestors worked to realise is manifested in and furthered by me.

This concept is not undercut, but highlighted by our shared capacity to adapt and progress, a quality I have only been able to appreciate as I have grown older. In my grandparents鈥� home, when my parents were children, drinking was wholly taboo. The idea that they would have poured a glass of wine or cracked open a cold one as the family sat round the table for dinner is completely foreign, laughable in its impossibility. Even now, when those in my grandparents鈥� generation know full well 鈥� or at least strongly suspect- that their children drink, there is a peculiarly widespread suspension of belief. Unlike them, my parents purposefully made the conversations around drinking transparent ones, building a starkly different environment for my brother and I. It is not a divide I see here though: both the generations before me have worked to progress from a few decades ago; now, there exists an unspoken acceptance rather than the censure of before and, in our children, this change will go further- a testament to the ability of each generation to shed what is no longer practical.

The shift, however slow, in the custom of isolating oneself during menstruation, a practice woven deeply into the fabric of Nepali society, is another example of both our ability to change and our commitment to our families. When my parents moved to England, my mother realised that a part of her life that she took as a given would have to change; not due to any disillusionment of the practice on her part, but due to the impossibility of adherence. In a village in Nepal, women on their periods sit separately from others, eat off a different set of dishes, are barred from entering the kitchen and, crucially, stay away from any religious areas. In England though, with my dad at work and no one else home, staying out of the kitchen simply meant not eating. With early starts and late shifts making time together already rare, living apart from others was an unnecessary cruelty. To my grandmother, isolating was a mark of respect; her compliance went unquestioned. Among my own peers, raised in a society that does not treat these rules as a given, there is a far greater sense of scepticism. This change was sparked generations ago, in my grandparents鈥� pushing for my mum to study, to work, to move. My mother鈥檚 generation began dismantling these ideas, the newfound necessity prompting change. In their children, our distance has allowed for progression, working to develop the change started decades ago.

However, this distance has not just furthered progression. We lose far more than we choose to shed, and the ensuing anxiety over the erosion of our identity is passed down too. This unintentional forgetting weighs on us, reminding me that though I am not as steeped in my culture as my ancestors were, I share with them the belief in the importance of it. Living in England, I worry about how much I will retain of what my parents pass down, just as they worry about the details they miss without their own parents here to guide them.

Commonality exists outside of just our fears though, in what we do retain. I know to hang flower garlands everywhere I can reach during Deepawali. My hands reach for the same ingredients my great-great-grandmother鈥檚 did when I make daal, following a recipe her mother passed down to her, as mine did to me. Bells ringing during my mother鈥檚 daily prayers wake me up, as they woke up my parents in their own childhoods. Though I may not know which colour flowers Ganesh should be worshipped with or how to read Sanskrit, I know the rhythm of a busy house during festival season: a kitchen table covered in dishes, petals underfoot wherever you go, children wriggling from their parents鈥� clutches and, always, an aunty rushing around with a camera, determined to document it all.

The details we lose are the price we pay for realising the dreams we have worked towards. We hold on to the sensory backdrop of who we are, remaining steadfast in our desire to remain tied to each other, across oceans, decades, generations. My grandparents worked to survive; there was no safety net, just a lifetime of labour to be able to send their children to study. My dad left for the city as a teenager, for England a few years later. Once here, going back to Nepal was not an option for my parents, so each decision they made mattered tenfold. To fail would be to waste the efforts of all those before them.

I am lucky enough to be confident in the knowledge that, should I fail, my parents will be just a call away. Still, there is an insistent part of me that knows it鈥檚 up to me to pass on the baton, or all the time my parents have spent on me: early morning drop-offs, back-to-back night shifts, each sacrifice I have seen and each one I will never know about, will have been for nothing. This feeling, shared by many of my generation, is a testament to the determination of all those before me. The sacrifices they made and the conditions they bore led me to where I am, and instilled in me that same determination for those who come after me.

I don鈥檛 need a time machine to cross the generational binary and understand my parents; their culture isn鈥檛 a product of their individual time but rather something that seeps into my modern life. The inherently human value of community overpowers these imagined barriers between generations. Christmas dinner with my family exhibits the rapidly transforming technological advancements, whilst my grandmother struggles with an iPhone, my 7-year-old cousin laughs over the latest 鈥榓i generated meme鈥�. Formerly, moderate technological transformation existed as a divider with entire generations living without a daily necessity of the next. Two generations defined by these individual characteristics sit either side of me, yet as both share a laugh over the meme those divisions soften. Rapid electronic development lessens sharp distinctions between generations as younger ones drive their elders to adopt invention through the domestic bridge. The inheritance of familial culture through conversation and media is vital for commonalities between generations, parents鈥� own experiences shape their children鈥檚, bridging imposed societal gaps through the gifting of personal tradition, enabling familial domestic culture to surpass these defined distances. Beyond the chattering and clanging of cutlery on plates, The Velvet Underground鈥檚 鈥榩ale blue eyes鈥� plays in the background. A song that鈥檚 travelled from my grandmother鈥檚 teen hood record collection to the lullaby my father would sing to me before bed as a toddler. The 1960鈥檚 British invasion track now makes a common appearance in my Spotify playlists, its generational melody lingering on. Music works as a globally influential force shaping my own taste as a gift from my parents and grandparents鈥� own experiences, connecting my modern use of music to that of the past. This digitalisation of previous generation鈥檚 culture intensifies the ability to refer to not only past music but ideologies, fashion, even language, forming a digital time machine, enabling individuals of my generation to travel to the cultures of the past. A pile of presents sits under the tree, yet the life-long gift is not physical but instead the legacy of culture passed within the domestic sphere. A roast is piled onto each plate, steam rises, the room overflowing with the aromatic smell of potatoes, turkey, stuffing and more. The human instinct to gather round hot, spiced food is a global one, spanning not only generations, but miles connecting people around the world. The Chinese hotpot, for example, first appeared in the 鈥榋hou dynasty鈥� now represents a communal dish, with unity as its core ingredient. After, the 90s, countries such as the UK and US began to take on this dish, popularising it in the world of social media. Despite both their recipes and places of origin being complete opposites, both hotpot and a Christmas roast join families together, evolving through the same digital and domestic bridges that bring my family together. The all encompassing human desire for both community and good food strongly connects not only separate generations, but also distinct countries. Continuation nonetheless can have negative impacts, with inherited beliefs inhibiting unity rather than encouraging it. Tradition on one hand can take the form of fruit cake at Christmas teatime, however, younger generations can also bear the weight of tradition. Gendered social expectations and racial stereotypes, when passed down, maintain a societal box of racial and gender discrimination. Whilst there are some signs of generational shifts, gender norms remain prevalent, these norms are passed through parental expectations within the domestic sphere as well as media, school and work systems in the public sphere. Education and work institutions are run by 鈥榟igher up鈥� older generations whose conventions get both subconsciously and intentionally passed down, imposing an endurance of inhibitive standards. Despite that, the inherently human instinct for community creates culture through surviving discrimination such as racism, sexism and homophobia. Contemporary culture can also act as a way of appreciation and remembrance of racial history, cornrows for example act as a now widespread product of heritage. The style began to dominate in the period of the transatlantic slave trade, in which through crafting patterns using hair enslaved people were able to communicate escape routes as a method of survival. Now cornrows hold widespread popularity throughout global Black culture allowing for the appreciation an acknowledgement of the African American history of survival and togetherness. We reach the most anticipated part of Christmas day, tearing of the glittery wrapping, revealing the present gifted by our family members, looks of joy, and occasionally subtle disappointment fill the room. Yet, the lifelong gift I open on Christmas day is the legacy of culture, the traditions I fulfilled were the very same ones my grandparents and great grandparents have performed throughout their life and will continue to. Whilst the objects wrapped up are tools to transport culture throughout generations the joy we shared is the real inheritance. My Christmas day is merely one small example of the global commonality of community which override the enforced boundaries between generations. When together in the act of ripping up present wrapping, we aren鈥檛 defined by what year we were born in but rather inherently human acts of happiness where those boundaries no longer exist. Sitting beside my grandmother and cousin, there isn鈥檛 a definitive 鈥榖lack and white鈥� barrier dividing us into our individual generations. I don鈥檛 need a time machine to cross these timeline boundaries; our shared life experiences diminish this strict age determined rules. People鈥檚 shared tradition of community is both globally and generationally uniquely one and the same.

The smell of spices wafts into the air. I sit inside the sukkah, a hut, our makeshift tabernacle, cold but comforting, its bamboo roof laid so gaps appear; I gaze at the stars above and for a moment I forget which century I am in. Around me, my family fills the small space: voices overlapping in a mix of ages and accents, my younger cousins restless on the bench beside me, my parents passing dishes across the table. The fruits hanging from the roof knock softly against each other in the breeze. Braided challah bread sits at the centre of the table beside a cup of wine, both blessed before we eat. Then my bibi (grandmother) emerges from the kitchen, the pot of ash-e mash heavy in both arms - thick with mung beans and herbs - and sets it on the table. On the flimsy canvas wall alongside children's brightly coloured drawings, we hang photographs of our ancestors, known as ushpizin. The patriarchs and matriarchs hang up all around us, as if we have invited them as guests, as if they are celebrating the festival of Sukkot with us today. Among them, is a photograph more familiar. More recent, but no less important. A photograph of my great grandfather, my bibi鈥檚 father. Eliezer Haruni. He was a Persian Jew, from Meshed (North-Eastern Persia). And every year, when I look at his face on that wall, I find myself trying to picture the sukkah he sat in when he was my age. Bibi's family were proud Mashhadi, Persian Jews - but to be a Jew in Persia was, for most of the 19th and start of the twentieth century, to live a double life. And this was particularly true for Meshed, where pogroms and forced conversions were the unfortunate reality. I heard stories of the lengths they went to stay hidden, praying in silence, changing their names. My great-grandfather wore the name Abdul Rachman Haruni. Despite this, they had an extraordinary devotion to the faith, going to great lengths to preserve their enduring, 3000-year lineage. Sukkot in Meshed therefore posed a problem. A festival that commanded you to build a hut in your garden, open to the sky, but a society that would push them underground. So that's exactly what they did. They built their sukkah underground. A hollow cut into the earth of their Mashhadi garden, its walls, mere earth, covered with children鈥檚 brightly coloured drawings and photographs of their ancestors, our ancestors. The hole is covered with bamboo, abundant enough to conceal it, sparse enough that the stars still came through. And inside, in the warmth and the dark, the same table my bibi sets today. Ash-e mash and tassak and dolmeh barg-e mo and braided challah at the centre of the table and a cup of wine, blessed with the same ancient blessings (said quietly into the ground). Four walls, one bamboo roof and a family sitting round a table. Above them, through the gaps: the same stars. And suddenly, 1930s Persia was not so different from 2020s Britain. Our Sukkah stands tall. My bibi brings out the same dishes, from the same recipes, in the same way they have always been. She learned them from her mother, who learned them from hers in an unbroken chain. Through it, through her hands, the people I never met are here, sitting together with us at the table. The exterior has changed, but inside remains our proud, Jewish core. The festival of Sukkot is, at its root, a commemoration of wandering. The ancient Israelites, having escaped Egyptian slavery, built the first sukkot during their forty years lost in the desert - simple temporary shelters, fragile by design. The roof must have gaps wide enough to see the sky through them because the point is to feel exposed. To sit under an open sky, surrounded by the people you love, eating food that carries your history and to find joy in the vulnerability, realising what it means to live in faith. The festival of Sukkot suggests that home isn't a fixed location, it's tradition itself. The tradition of rituals repeated, the tradition of dishes passed down, the tradition of prayers said in the same words across thousands of years. The continuity of tradition is stronger than any adversity. An important idea to note is the blending of cultures. I come at the confluence of many cultures: British, Jewish, Persian, Polish and more. I have a duty to uphold aspects of those cultures for my children and for future generations as those that have done so before me. What strikes me about my culture is how little has actually changed. My great-grandfather lived in a world unrecognisable to mine: a different country, a different century, a different set of dangers pressing in from outside the walls. And yet the recipes of the food remained the same, the blessings fell in the same order, the bamboo let through the same stars. This is not unique to our family. Across centuries and continents, Persian Jews carried their traditions through huge threats (such as the Allahdad massacre of Jews in 1839), arriving 鈥� intact - on the other side. And beyond them, the wider Jewish diaspora: scattered across the world, still building a sukkah every Autumn. Fashions change. Borders change. The conditions to express yourself proudly change beyond recognition. What does not change is the heart of a people. Despite pogroms, forced-conversions, genocides and expulsions, I sit in my Sukkah, as Jews have done from 100 years ago in Persia to 3000 years ago in the Sinai desert. And we look up at the stars. And the stars look back at us.