iNSo - Ninety-two

Lyrics: Born when the North Sea mist was thick and grey, In ninety-two, on a damp autumn day. Raised where the dikes hold back the tide, With nothing but the cycling lanes for a guide. The streets were familiar, the rain felt real, Before we lived life through a glass-screen seal. Just a heavy coat and a radio dial, Walking steady distance mile after mile. Remember the cafes, the smell of the rain? The sound of a tram on a heavy iron lane. We were analog souls in a digital age, Turning the leaf on a brand new page. The borders felt open, the future seemed bright, As we sat by the water in the evening light. Now the skyline is mapped by a satellite eye, And we’re searching for truth in a pixelated sky. Oh, the years have drifted since ninety-two, The world grew faster, the colors shifted hue. From the canal banks to the fiber-optic glow, Watching the rhythms of the river flow. I’ve seen the landscapes fade into screens, Living out life in the spaces between. But the streets are changing, names I don’t know, As the currents of the world begin to flow. New faces walking where my father once stood, In a neighborhood shifting like splintered wood. The planners in cities, far from the shore, Are opening wide an ever-widening door. But they forget the hands that built the walls, And the quiet traditions inside these halls. They talk of progress from a distant height, While the local hearth loses its light. The rules are rewritten by those far away, Who don’t feel the wind on a Dutch autumn day. Resources are stretched, the focus is thin, As the cracks in the foundation start settling in. We’re told to adapt, to blend, to conform, While the roots of our culture weather the storm. The men in the suits… with their pens and their pride… Decide on the paths where the rest of us ride. They sit in high offices, sheltered and grand, Drawing lines through the heart of our land. They speak of “the future” with eyes turned away, Ignoring the people who toil every day. They feed us the stories that we want to hear, To stir up the anger or mask-the-fear. A carefully crafted, polished design, That blurs out the truth and draws a straight line. It travels through wires, it hits like a gale, Changing the narrative, thinning the veil. Most just absorb what they’re told to believe, With little enough time left to truly perceive. Now everyone’s walking with heads bowed low, Caught in the flicker of a blue-tinted glow. We’re staring at shadows on glass-covered palms, Losing our focus to digital charms. The neighbor is passing, but nobody speaks, Lost in the static of a thousand weeks. A world full of connection, yet we’ve never been more alone, Tethered to devices while we’re drifting from home. The maps have been redrawn, the old ways moved deep, Promises made that we struggle to keep. From landlines and letters to instant connection, We’ve gained the world but lost some reflection. The seasons feel shorter, the winters more strange, As the landscape shifts in a constant exchange. Now I’m standing here with a silver streak of grey, Watching the ghosts of my youth drift away. The Lowlands are changing, the water’s rising high, Underneath an increasingly restless sky. But I carry the warmth of that ninety-two sun, Before the race felt like it had already been won. Ninety-two… a lifetime ago. The world keeps spinning, fast or slow. Just a man from the North, watching it change, Finding home in the beauty of the strange.