In reading through this thread, I’m reminded strongly of a passage from James Baldwin’s short story “Sonny’s Blues”. Though I had to look it up to put it here, I have never forgotten the gist of it.
"Then Creole stepped forward to remind them that what they were playing was the blues. He hit something in all of them, he hit something in me, myself, and the music tightened and deepened, apprehension began to beat the air. Creole began to tell us what the blues were all about. They were not about anything very new. He and his boys up there were keeping it new, at the risk of ruin, destruction, madness and death, in order to find new ways to make us listen. For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it must always be heard. There isn’t any other tale to tell, it’s the only light we’ve got in all this darkness."
I write poetry (that I don’t inflict on other people) because it is something that needs to come out in some way. I really have no other way to describe it. I wrote a poem in my early 20s that was filled with heightened language, vivid imagery, with a specific rhyme scheme and patterned syllabic count per line. At the time I wrote it, I remembered wondering if I was alright and also where was it coming from. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized it was completely and totally about my father molesting my (one year) younger sister for years, which my (one year) older sister and I (separately) witnessed several times. (Note - not talking about recovered memories here.) There is no mention in the poem anywhere about this but once I made the connection, it was very apparent.
I have a couple of dozen poems that I memorized in my 20s that served to keep me going when I was destitute, when I was hitchhiking around with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. They spoke/speak to me strongly with their messages but really what has kept them in my memory all these decades later is that they are, to me, beauty. Not beautiful, but actual beauty itself. One such is Curiousity, by Alastair Reid.
I’m going to be honest and confess, Aeschines, that your thread has left me cold. So much concern about Story, oversaturation, fatigue. Seems to me that you have been Eliot-ized to a degree. So, to answer your question from my POV, no, there is no limit to pop culture. New people are born everyday. To paraphrase Mr. Baldwin, they will find ways to speak their dreams, their struggles, their importances, their beauty. Of this I have no doubt. Your meta-concerns will matter not a whit to them. I do not intend being unkind or dismissive. I’m just some random guy on the Internet banging on a keyboard. But I did not see this aspect of the matter addressed much in the thread and it seemed important to me to so do.