MARCH 22 — There’s a certain kind of madness that wears a suit, speaks in press conferences, and drops bombs with a straight face.
And then there’s the rest of us — standing here with the whole universe in our rearview mirror and a miracle under our feet, still squabbling like toddlers with matches in a room full of kerosene.
This planet — this lonely, aching ball of blue fire hurtling through darkness — is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. Trees that breathe for us. Oceans that sing. Rice fields. Street food. Good sex. Bad jokes. The smell of rain on hot tar. A baby’s laugh. The way light hits water at 5.47pm. All of it — every beautiful, fleeting second — is happening here, on Earth.
And yet, we’re busy arguing over whose god is correct. Whose ancestors came first. Which border belongs to whom. Whose grief matters more. Whose death is justifiable. We kill children in the name of justice. We bomb hospitals and call it strategic. We rape, we ruin, we rewrite history like it’s a group project no one wants to take responsibility for.
Meanwhile, Elon Musk wants to go to Mars.
250 million miles away, a red desert without mercy. No rivers. No love songs. No nasi lemak, no violin, no grandmother’s hands. Just dust and death and the echo of all the beauty we left behind. From there, if you squint hard enough, Earth is a pale shimmer — fragile, alive, impossibly rare.
Do you think anyone staring down at this sapphire speck will say:
“Yes. That’s the place where they fought over invisible gods and invisible lines. That’s where they dropped bombs on schools and invented excuses faster than they could invent peace.”
How did we become this species? Armed to the teeth and emotionally bankrupt. Technologically godlike, spiritually infantile. We built machines to save time and then used the time to destroy each other. We automated kindness out of our systems. We monetised fear. We’ve made outrage a lifestyle, and ignorance a badge of honour.
How is invading countries still a thing? How are we still electing warmongers, still buying the same propaganda with newer graphics and better hashtags? How is genocide a footnote? How are dead children just another scroll on your morning doomfeed?
This was supposed to be our Eden. The one shot. And we’re fumbling it, spectacularly.
We should be dancing. Cooking. Listening. Building. Making art. Taking naps in hammocks. Falling in love. Writing postcards. Growing tomatoes. Learning the names of birds. Watching our kids become who they’re meant to be, not pulling their tiny corpses from rubble.
This was supposed to be our Eden. — AFP pic
We should be spending every last damn minute cherishing this place.
Instead, we’re watching the same old play with new costumes: Bomb. Blame. Justify. Repeat.
So, I ask you — not as a writer, not as a cynic, but as someone who still believes in the goodness buried beneath all this rot:
What the hell are we doing?
And when will we finally stop?
* This is the personal opinion of the writers or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.
