When did everything get so melancholic on the internet? A favourite meme of mine known as Pedro Pascal Crying With Space Song – a very literal explanation of the video – succinctly reflects this fascinating and oddly addicting trend.
The video shows a clip of The Last of Us and Mandalorian actor Pedro Pascal (acting on a video call) laugh manically before steadily slipping into an uncontrollable sob, all to the soundtrack of Space Song by Beach House, one of the biggest indie bops of the last 10 years.
Iterations of the meme have been viewed millions of times, with the clip often paired with images evoking the passing of time or relatable pop culture tragedies, specifically shared nostalgia from early Gen Z’s childhood.
Underneath the original eight-second video – the precise attention span of Children of the Internet – commenters have captioned it. “When your friend group starts to slowly grow apart,” one person wrote, to which thousands more expressed resonance. “When you’re holding your tears but then someone asks if you are okay,” said another.
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We had sex maybe once a month. The constant rejection was soul-crushing, it felt like my ex didn’t even like me
[ TikTok spied on me. Why?Opens in new window ]
Such abstract content let the flood gates open for thousands of faceless profiles to experience a brief fraternity around shared feelings of loss and aimlessness, yearning for some sort of connection at the other end of their phones.
This genre of memeage can be addictive. Doomscrolling – the often-self-destructive act of surfing the net for the latest negative news and lately this dismal form of melancholic meme – is a staple of the Gen Z diet.
The Pedro Pascal melancholic meme is probably considered old by now after more than a year doing the rounds, but there’s a near endless volume of new ones popping up all the time. I’m constantly catching up on the online zeitgeist and feel increasingly puzzled by how meta things have become, like one big superhero movie tie-in but I’ve missed the last 100 movies. I can only imagine how my grandparents feel when the algorithm recommends some footage of an obscure mobile game with Family Guy or Fortnite playing alongside, but that’s beside the point.
The logical progression from being a doomer is surely a bloomer, but if the science is anything to go by, the answers don’t lie behind a screen
This subgenre, often known as “corecore” on TikTok, feels like the inevitable evolution for a generation plagued by poor mental health and trapped by the social rules emanating from their devices. In corecore, all sorts of imagery is blended together in a montage evoking loneliness, emptiness and exhaustion – traits plaguing the youth of today.
Ambient music. Late-stage capitalism. Profound anime quotes. Human civilisation at the end of Wall-E. Jordan B Peterson in tears. Social psychologist Jonathan Haidt talking about the dangers of social media. The end of The Truman Show. Calls to “wake up” from doomscrolling. Monologues about depression, staying in bed all day, losing hope, suicide.
Just 20 minutes of scrolling and I already feel drained.
On the internet, there’s often a fine line between harmless fun and dangerous manipulation of the brain through dopamine stimulation that steadily plunges your mental health into a deep abyss. Corecore’s proponents might argue it’s designed to cut through the faff and deliver a reality check to doomscrollers, but how can it when it’s so addictive in itself? Repeated exposure to melancholia is worrying on its own, but the mere act of extended screen time is proven to be correlated with higher levels of anxiety, depression or worse.
[ Finn McRedmond: The tragic irony of the TikTok therapistOpens in new window ]
Algorithms test users constantly and latch on to what you’re interested in so if you have a predisposition to comfort in among the sad vibes, it will serve it up on a platter time and time again. TikTok has been praised in the tech world for its gold-standard algorithm – but such enthusiasm should concern users.
Any presumption that these tech megacompanies have users’ best interests at heart is laughable. TikTok was recently fined in the UK for not trying hard enough to keep children under 13 from the app. Once you give your child a phone, the only thing between them and a world of chaos is a phoney gateway asking if they’re 18. What child has ever opted to restrict their own internet use?
Instagram was also embroiled in scandal after it was found the service was promoting accounts glorifying eating disorders to teenagers. One needs only to look over the shoulder of some people these days to see the imagery social media algorithms suggest: eating disorders, macho masculinity, self-harm, soft porn. It doesn’t take long to get from doomscrolling corecore to more self-detrimental activities.
The wave of connection through memes like the Pascal one highlights at least two things: 1) Young people are trying to cope in the domain they feel safest: the internet; and 2) There is something deeply problematic going on if young people are flocking to TikTok hashtags, Instagram reels and subreddits to experience emotional connection.
The logical progression from being a doomer is surely a bloomer, but if the science is anything to go by, the answers don’t lie behind a screen. Much like Pascal’s masterful performance of a faux laugh, so too do the Children of the Internet propose a curated sense of self online, only to fall apart when the mask slips.
And when the screens fade to black into the small hours of the morning, what’s left but a dim reflection of a cheerless face staring back, reaching out for something more than this weird little existence scrolling in our bedrooms. If you feel like you need help, get some in the real world.
If you have been affected by some of the issues in this article, contact Samaritans at 116 123, or visit jigsaw.ie