Soft scars on my skin, silicone, porcelain
I’m not one of them, love you ’til thе end
Give me onе more dose, turn me into a rose
Water me ’til I wither, 404 errorGod created man, motherboard, wires and
x w x
Blood, bones, flesh, breathing, suicide engineering
Soft scars on my skin, silicone, porcelain
I’m not one of them, love you ’til the end
Oh my God! That’s it! Fuck you, Protomartyr, with your “kissing the ass of billionaires” nonsense, why should I listen to any of you? You’re all, like, a million years old. Nat Ćmiel, the Singaporean genius behind yeule, is in their mid twenties, they know what human beings’ attempted relationship with the online world is grasping at. Ćmiel knows that we’re not reaching out to praise a capitalistic God. They know that capitalism has already beaten any true beliefs out of us. Late stage capitalism has divided us, it has forced us into isolation, crushed anything approaching ‘community’ into tiny pieces of dust and demanded that those pieces of dust reach out to nobody, just become statistics and scrolling machines to tempt enough of the other specks of dust to pay their own subscriptions so they can wokescold you for buying a McDonalds, because you don’t really have the time nor money to do all you’re allowed to do to protest Israeli genocide. Of course, if we just came together and organised we could maybe make real roads towards overthrowing the imperialist system, making atrocities like the ones taking place in Israel, Yemen… Oh, never mind, you’re still writing a lengthy post complaining about Nat Ćmiel using they/them pronouns, aren’t you? We’re all on the same side, you egg sucking dog.
You like rotting in your bed
dazies
When was the last time you were fed?
Enough love, enough love, but instead
You pretend like you are dead
Miserably count how many
Shadows you see right above me
Violently biting off flesh
Of your own, of your own body
Cry like a baby
Screaming and shaky
These rotten daisies
Look just like
Just, just like you
We’re now so unsure of our own existence that everything we release online is a soft scar that will at least ensure our bloodstains are eternally wiped across the world’s biggest and most intricate ever cave painting. It’s a failsafe. There’s no heaven, there’s no hope for a future where the global misery and neoslavery even flattens out, so at least make sure your tiny handprints are somewhere amongst the billion other squeals into the void. When an alien race discovers this void, centuries after we’ve all burned the Earth and all our homes to the ground, at least some traces of me will still exists. I say ‘we’ burned the Earth to the ground. It’s not ‘we’, is it? I’m pretty sure if all the ‘we’ on Earth were asked, ‘we’ would’ all overwhelmingly prefer not to destroy the place that ‘we’ live on order for a few dozen people to turn their trillion dollars into a trillion point zero zero one dollars.
“Wow, those unlucky souls, they must have never known that all this industry and carbon pollution would eventually destroy their planet. Poetic, really”
“Erm, no sir, as far as we can tell they knew about the disastrous effects for a couple of hundred years”
“What?? And they just kept doing it??”
“Yeah. They actually kept doing more and more of it”
“But… Why??”
“To be fair, sir, it would have had a devastating effect on profits and the shareholders might not have been happy”
“Shareholders?? Profits?? Who gives a shiny shite?! What are they even going to spend it on if they’re destroying everything that human’s have ever created??”
“Funko Pops, sir. They were the only things to survive the nuclear annihilation. Every human had about a fucking dozen of them so they were apparently the most prized possession”
“So what, they ate them or some shit?”
“We may conclude that, sir”
“Seems pretty gay*”
“Totally, sir”
(*it doesn’t have the same connotations five thousand years from now! Stop wokescolding advanced alien races by your early 21st century libbed up standards! Seriously, you’re being super gay right now)
This blog is me making sure that enough droplets of my personality exist and are recorded indefinitely so that there’s always enough to make a digital copy if ever it’s needed. I don’t really need to be alive at all. Like I say: a failsafe. Enough of my identity is now online. If people really want me, they can always just use the pieces of me that I have scattered in a small corner of the internet. I am now immortal, whatever happens to my body. My scars are now all online.
I went through a long period of cutting myself. If you know what you’re looking for, you can still see my own collection of soft scars zig zagging across my left arm. There are a few where I went deeper into the skin than I would have liked, now providing embarrassing chunks of light tissue. I stopped cutting my arm quite quickly though: I generally wear short sleeve shirts, and I’m not the kind that welcomes Scar Discourse. It’s much better to slice lines into your lower legs. The scars are easier to hide and even if they’re not, well, people just get scars on their legs, don’t they? For a few years, I couldn’t remember why I did it. I never thought it was a cry for attention, as I preferred to cut places people would never see. It wasn’t until the depths of my second marriage, when I was hurting deeply and not sure if there was anyway out, that I began to feel that longing for the razer again. It’s brilliant to take your mind of wider trauma and focus it on one particular part that you are in complete control over. Nothing can hurt you if you’re in steady control of the pain. I’m not yet convinced that it isn’t a legitimate and successful way of dealing with trauma. Sometimes you need to take control. Soft scars on my skin, silicone, porcelain. Maybe that’s what I’m doing with all this nonsense I post online. 726 posts of extended self-harm. Exerting some control over the usage of my existence that companies will brazenly do anyway under surveillance capitalism. Just a small cut. But It’s my cut. I did this. That robot you create from me using all of this is going to be kickass!!
‘Softscars’ is yeule looking over their own body and reminding themselves of their own wounds that helped them combat past traumas. Their last album – the absolutely fucking peerless 𝖌𝕝𝒾,c̶̳͚̈́͌̿͋̔ͅ𝖍 ρ𝖗𝕚n̶͓͉̣͉͚̂̏͐ƈᵉ𝖘ร. No, fuck you, I love that typeface – aimed for form and function intertwining, with odes to digital isolation set to music that sounded like the radio station that you would have to politely ask that robot taxi driver from Total Recall to turn down. On the follow up, yeule kind of does the same thing but with a more mischievous glint in their eyes. Self-harm? Depression? Trauma? Lol, sounds pretty fucking emo! OK. Let’s make an emo album.
Of course, this is yeule though, so inspirations like ’emo’ – along with Avril Lavigne, Smashing Pumpkins, and other early 90s/00s alt-rock/pop-punk that came back in a big way in 2023 – aren’t just simply karaoked or payed ‘tribute’ to. They’re instead fed into yeule’s brain – which I’ve always imagined as a mic between a steampunk spinning jenny and a mood board created by that ‘ugly woman’ who gets turned into a ‘freaky robot’ in Superman III – and what comes out is nothing like anything else. It’s what rock should sound like in 2023. The influences are pretty similar to Olivia Rodrigo’s latest – and I’d bet that yeule is a fan – and ‘softscars’ acts as a twisted, even more traumatised and far less commercially viable counterpoint to Rodrgo’s (still brilliant, don’t get me wrong) second album.
TLDR: We need a yeule x Olivia Rodrigo collaboration and I’m going to keep cutting myself until I get it.
Necessary Evil 
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