In the Waiting Room of Meaning: Media, Narrative, and the Birth of a New Storytelling Culture
by Cordula Frei
In the Waiting Room of Meaning: Media, Narrative, and the Birth of a New Storytelling Culture
By Cordula Frei
“There is a strange quiet between resignation and hope — that’s where most honest media lives today.”
This essay emerges from a conversation — one that took place not in a polished studio, but in the spacious uncertainty of two people waiting. Waiting for language to come. Waiting for the world to make more sense. Waiting, perhaps, for the return of meaning. (And also- waiting for a answer how to finance a media project)
Tom Amarque, founder of Parallax Medien, and I have worked together for years. Our conversations are often like weather: unpredictable, moody, sometimes charged. What became our podcast wasn’t planned. It grew from shared exhaustion with the spectacle of media, and a longing for something that didn’t feel like performance.
This isn’t a manifesto. It s rather, as our friend and co-creator of parallax media Andrew Sweeney would say : It’s closer to a campfire.
And it begins with a question:
What is media for, if not to tell the stories that help us live?
In the ruins of the 20th century, we are no longer living inside cohesive stories. The grand narratives — of progress, rationality, capitalism, socialism, even the myth of "neutral" journalism — have unraveled. What remains is a kind of narrative vacuum, filled with noise.
Jean-François Lyotard called this the "incredulity toward metanarratives." But Alexander Bard sharpens the diagnosis for the 21st century. In his Syntheism and Digital Libido, he writes:
“We have left the age of ideologies and entered the age of networks. The priest has become the programmer. The sermon has become the meme.”
Paradoxically, the more connected we are, the more fragmented our cultural sense-making becomes. In such a landscape, media must either mutate or disappear. And something new is emerging: not broadcast, but tribal resonance. Not monologue, but ritual dialogue.
Media has always been a mirror — but the distortion has changed. In legacy forms, the distortion was centralized: editorial filters, corporate sponsorships, national ideologies. Today, it is personalized and algorithmic. We no longer see "the world" through a newspaper; we see ourselves refracted through feedback loops.
As Bard puts it:
“We are no longer audiences, we are tribes again. But this time, with a god in our pocket: the smartphone.”
Media is becoming ritual once more. The podcast, the livestream, the Telegram thread: these are less about content than about belonging. Listening becomes a form of participation. The voice in your ears is not an authority figure but a fellow traveler.
At Parallax, we began to realize this intuitively and we are still in progress finding our identity. Our media is not polished. It is not meant to be. Instead it is a kind of shared thinking aloud. In the absence of shared stories, something else fills the space: anxiety, distraction, and the endless scroll of content. This is the narrative vacuum — not just an intellectual gap, but a spiritual one.
It is the condition of a culture that knows everything and understands nothing.
Alexander Bard, always uncompromising, writes in Digital Libido:
“A society without metaphysics becomes a society of addiction. The libido doesn’t disappear; it migrates — into screens, into rage, into nihilistic comedy.”
This is the shadow side of postmodernity: not liberation, but disorientation. In this state, media becomes a kind of anesthetic. Stories no longer invite transformation, they offer sedation. Information replaces wisdom and irony replaces intimacy.
But into this vacuum, new questions are whispering their way in:
What if media could reawaken soul?
What if storytelling wasn’t just narrative, but initiation?
Tom Amarque and I often speak of this in terms of existential media but he also invites us to become the ritual it self. He engages in Media not just as transmission of information, but as a form of self-inquiry creating a transmissional space. It is less infotainment, but more soul alchemy. We are confronting, laughing, wrestling, resignating and then standing up again, for the love of it.
In our recent conversations, we kept returning to this sense that media must begin again — not as spectacle, but as a sacrament. What if the storyteller is not a performer, but a witness? What if the listener is not a consumer, but a participant in meaning-making?
We are not alone in asking this. A new ecology of storytellers is emerging — podcasters, writers, creators — who sense that the task now is not to entertain or persuade, but to restore resonance. To hold space for the mythic dimension that never fully died, only went quiet. Recently Tom asked me, what Parallax is all about. My answer was clear and direct; it is about the ancient art of being storytellers.
Once upon a time, the storyteller held the tribe together.
Their words were not entertainment. They were the way a people remembered who they were. A story was not an anecdote — it was a map, a mirror, a medicine. And sometimes a warning, the only way to stay alert and not to forget.
In our time, this ancient role is reawakening and at the same time endangered to drown in the loss of the poetic skill of media being art. The storytellers don t meet in the halls of academia or the studios of mainstream journalism, but in quiet corners of the internet: in podcasts recorded in kitchens, in newsletters written at midnight, in voices learning to speak again from the heart.
At Parallax, we didn’t start out trying to “be” storytellers. We were simply trying to make sense of a world in which meaning had become scarce and encouraged each other to survive holding on to active thinking and creative discussion and discourse. To put another and a thing into question is a endangered skill in a media society which either lies, attacks or denies. But again and again, we found ourselves circling back to narrative — not as a tool of persuasion, but as a sacred act of attention. To sit together at a round table and engage in dialogue, holding the complexity of not agreeing and yet embracing the controversion slowly formed the sacred ground for the holy fireplace and the stern and deeply humourous tribal warriors meeting for a short pause in a overloaded noisy world.
Here is the return of the storyteller. Not the influencer, not the pundit, not the brand. Here is to the one who listens before they speak. The ones who remembers the silence between the words. The one who helps the tribe feel itself again.
Alexander Bard reminds us that every technological age reconfigures the sacred. The printing press gave us the sermon. Television gave us the spectacle. The internet, paradoxically, may give us back the intimacy of voice.
“In a networked world, myth must be reborn in real time,” Bard writes. “The new prophets are conversational.”
This isn’t about returning to some romanticized past but about recognizing the thread that never broke — the red thread of story that weaves through every genuine culture. The thread we must now pick up again, not as an aesthetic, but as a responsibility.
Tom and I often speak about this in terms of media as witnessing. A true storyteller does not impose meaning. They reveal it. They do not shout over the world, but listen for its shape and risk the uncomfortable zone to stay naked to the possibilty that no one will listen, like or ever read your story. And still you must write.
And so we gather — imperfectly, vulnerably — to speak the words that might let someone else remember themselves. To make meaning, not noise and to tell the stories that help us live.
In an age where global networks connect us in unprecedented ways, we paradoxically find ourselves pulled back into tribes. These are not tribes in the traditional sense — there is no geographical boundary or ancestral line, but rather a shared resonance, an invisible network of ideas, passions, and values. This is the mythic web we’re all trying to understand.
As Andrew Sweeney, a third part of our team at Parallax, often emphasizes, tribal media is less about the content itself and more about the emotional connections it fosters. The most powerful media today isn’t delivered through polished broadcasts or corporate-sponsored platforms — it’s experienced through spaces of shared intention and their level of authenticity. This could be a Discord group, a WhatsApp thread, or a podcast — places where interaction is not just encouraged but required. Or a poem shared, a piece of music, a untold story finding ears of resonance.
"We no longer communicate with media, we communicate with each other. This is where the sacredness of media begins. It's not about transmitting information; it’s about transmitting meaning — the type of meaning that exists when we share a deep, unspoken resonance."
In these digital spaces, the traditional roles of content creator and consumer blur into one fluid experience. The content we produce, whether it's through spoken word, written articles, or shared memes, takes on a life of its own. It no longer serves to broadcast to passive recipients but sparks participation in the ongoing creation of the story itself. This is the power of the mythic web — a space where stories are no longer delivered, but co-created. As Tom Amarque often points out in his talks, it’s no longer about waiting for the narrative to come to us it is being created, together.
What we have today isn’t just a media revolution. It’s a resurrection of something ancient. The storyteller of the past stood at the campfire, offering their narrative to a silent audience. Today, the storyteller is just as likely to be found in a Telegram group, a livestream, or in a spontaneous, unscripted conversation, where all are invited to contribute, to speak, and to shape the story.
This resurgence of the tribal narrative is deeply tied to the crisis of modernity: as the grand narratives of nation, religion, and ideology break down, we search for new ways to connect and understand each other. Tribal media allows us to find meaning in community, not in grandiose ideologies, but in the subtle, quiet sharing of human experience.
In our work at Parallax, we aim to cultivate just such a space. As Andrew says, “We’re not trying to create a new media company. We’re trying to create a new way of being together, of listening, and of sharing what matters most.” Parallax is a platform for such a transformation, one that resists traditional media forms and is built on trust, resonance, and shared inquiry.
The narrative is no longer simply told by a single voice; it’s lived, and it’s lived in relationship. Through these tribal connections, we weave the story that defines not just our present, but our future. The medium, in this case, is not just the message — it’s the lived experience of community. We now find ourselves once again in a mythic place, but it’s a myth not of gods and heroes alone, but of human connection in its rawest, most intimate form.
In the face of a world that seems to be losing its narrative coherence, the role of media is evolving beyond mere information transmission. It’s becoming a tool of spiritual practice. At Parallax, this idea has been central to our mission — not to simply inform or entertain, but to invite people into an experience that transcends the everyday rush of headlines, likes, and distractions.
In the traditional sense, spiritual practices were framed in ritualistic contexts: meditation, prayer, or communal worship. But today, as media continues to evolve, we find ourselves entering a new dimension: the media experience itself can be a form of spiritual initiation. When we engage with media consciously — as participants, not passive consumers — it offers us a doorway to a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us.
“The more we connect, the more we expose our innermost selves. The digital space becomes a space of collective initiation, where we shape each other not just intellectually, but spiritually.” says Bard.
This is, in essence, what we’re trying to cultivate through Parallax: a media practice that engages not just the intellect, but the heart, soul, and spirit. It is about returning to a sense of reverence in what we consume and share. Media can no longer be viewed as something that’s simply “out there,” it is an exchange — a ritual, if you will — in which the audience is not just an observer, but a participant in the co-creation of meaning.
Tom Amarque and I often reflect on how the podcasts and content we create are not meant to be consumed quickly or in isolation. They are invitations to linger, to sit with discomfort, to ask questions without expecting immediate answers. They are about cultivating presence — an act of conscious listening.
Andrew Sweeney, in one of our recent conversations, noted, “When we produce media, we are sharing something that cannot be fully captured by words. It’s an essence that must be felt, experienced. That’s why we don’t try to package things neatly or aim for perfection. The messiness of the process is the point.”
This messiness, the unpolished nature of what we create, is its power. In this space, there is no need for smoothness or perfection; instead, there is room for vulnerability, rawness, and authenticity. It is in this vulnerability that the true spiritual potential of media comes alive. This is not about presenting polished ideologies or smooth narratives, but about offering a space for honest, unguarded exploration.
“We are all in the same waiting room. What does it mean for us to wait together? To hear each other’s stories? To listen without judgment, and to share what we’re truly experiencing?”
It is in this waiting — this collective uncertainty — that we find the seeds of spiritual awakening. Through media, we can tune into each other’s experiences, lifting ourselves from the mundane to the profound. What was once a transactional exchange becomes a communal act of conscious creation.
In the world of endless media cycles, it’s easy to get caught in the race for relevance, for attention, for validation. But the deeper work, the truly transformative work, is done when we step back, turn inward, and listen — deeply. As we continue to develop Parallax, we want to invite our audience into this space of deep listening and conscious engagement.
So what is a media space in the most basic way? It’s about us — how we relate to each other, how we create, and how we find meaning together. Media, in this light, becomes a bridge to something far larger: a sacred space where we can witness each other’s truths, where we can support each other’s growth, and where we can collectively reimagine a new narrative.
As we move forward, Parallax will continue to explore how media can serve as a mirror — not only reflecting society, but shaping it. It’s a call to anyone who is ready to engage with their deepest selves and others in a way that is not transactional, but truly spiritual. Media is not just a platform. It’s a practice. It’s a space for transformation, this is why we also engage as a academic and educational space. In an era dominated by fast-paced information, where headlines flicker and scrolls fly by, there is something quietly powerful in subtle narratives. These stories are not designed to grab attention with sensationalism or shock value. Instead, they seep into the cracks of our awareness, bypassing the noise and entering through quieter channels. They move us slowly, almost imperceptibly, yet their effect is profound. This is where media has the potential to shift from mere entertainment to meaningful change.
At Parallax, we have often found that the most potent narratives are not the loudest ones but the ones that whisper in the background, encouraging us to question, to reflect, and to grow. These are the stories that unfold not in a single podcast or article, but in a series of moments — those small encounters that invite us to look a little deeper, listen a little longer, and let go of our immediate judgments.
"The most powerful media is that which leaves room for the listener to breathe, to think, to feel. It doesn’t tell them what to think, but encourages them to find their own voice within the story."
This is the power of the subtle narrative. It doesn’t force conclusions upon us; instead, it fosters an environment where we can connect with the deeper layers of our own experience. It invites us to meet our own unspoken truths.
Alexander Bard speaks about the shift in storytelling dynamics in his work, particularly regarding the new era of decentralized media:
“The future of media lies not in the spectacle, but in the subtle construction of meaning. We are no longer telling stories to entertain, but to provoke self-inquiry. This is the essence of what it means to create media for a new world.”
In this new media landscape, we can no longer afford to merely react to the noise around us. The subtle narrative asks us to actively participate in our own transformation. It forces us to look beyond the surface and find the deeper meaning woven into the fabric of our daily lives. It shifts the focus from the external to the internal, asking us to be more mindful of how we engage with the world and each other.
Subtle narratives often operate in the background, in the moments when we are least expecting them. They are present in the quiet pauses of a conversation, in the spaces between words, or in the way a piece of art or music makes us feel. These are the moments that break through the noise of our busy lives and leave a lasting impact on our hearts and minds. They challenge us to go beyond superficial understanding and allow for a deeper, more introspective relationship with the world around us. This is what makes the subtle narrative so crucial in the age of information overload. As our society becomes more fragmented and disjointed, we are in need of stories that help us reconnect with what truly matters. Not the stories that entertain us or distract us from the world’s complexities, but those that invite us to engage with those complexities, to understand them, and to grow through them.
We see ourselves as guides, not performers, as facilitators of a journey into meaning, rather than sources of ready-made answers. Through our work, we aim to help our audience find their own subtle narratives — the stories that help them make sense of the world and their place within it.
As we continue to develop our projects, we will keep returning to the importance of these subtle, nuanced narratives. They are the stories that don’t shout for attention, but rather pull us into deeper conversation with ourselves and the world around us.
In a world that often feels too loud, too fast, these subtle narratives remind us of the power of presence, and of the deep well of meaning that lies beneath the surface of our daily lives.
This is the heart of the call to new storytelling: to choose a path that places meaning over spectacle, connection over division, and authenticity over performance. The storytellers of tomorrow will not simply broadcast ideas; they will create spaces of resonance. They will invite us into shared experience, where truth and vulnerability are not just tolerated but embraced.
“Storytelling isn’t just about telling a story. It’s about inviting others to find their own stories in what you create. The best stories don’t belong to the creator — they belong to everyone who encounters them.”
This is where our journey as media creators, as Parallax, truly begins: in the recognition that the stories we tell are not just for us, but for the collective. They are for the people who listen, read, and engage with them, who allow them to shape their own understanding of the world.
And so, we call upon all those who are seeking meaning, seeking depth, seeking something beyond the constant din of distraction, to join us in this new chapter of storytelling. It is not about creating content that simply fills space, it is about creating media that opens doors to understanding, that builds connection in a time when isolation seems so prevalent, and that invites people to see themselves and the world in new, transformative ways.
This is how we at Parallax, along with the voices of Tom, Andrew, and all those involved, are navigating the new media landscape. Through storytelling that is authentic, personal, and deeply connected to the human experience, we seek to change not just the media we consume, but the way we understand the world and each other.
The call to new storytelling is not just a call to action — it’s a call to reflection, to transformation, and to connection.
And with that, I ll end this essay, but the conversation continues.- Cordula Frei