We are the species that writes lullabies and builds bombs.
We cross oceans for loveā¦
And cross them again for war.
Weāve thrown our bodies into riot lines, stood unarmed before tanks and run into burning buildings for strangers.
Weāve also scrolled past war with dinner on our laps and called it ānewsā.
We hold each other through the unthinkable and still fund the machines that make it happen again.
We are a paradox indeedā¦
But not beyond redemption.
I know we live in a world designed to numb us and i see how it praises productivity while burying empathy. Silence is rewarded, individualism dresses as spirituality and dissociation is turned into a trend.
But I also know something tender in us always survives.
I see it in the way a child still reaches for connection before learning to fear it and an elder still remembers the smell of rain before concrete covered the soil. I see it in the resilience of entire populations who have lost everything, but still braid their childrenās hair and carry water through rubble. I feel it in the rage and grief of so many, forced to watch livestream slaughter at the hands of global representatives, who now only represent corruption and moral decay.
And that tenderness is what I hold onto. I refuse to go numb. I wonāt become another ghost in the machine, because I still trust in our capacity to return.
And I believe we return not just through protest or poetry, but through the small everyday choices that refuse to betray the soul. The food we buy, the products we consume, the stories we share, the way we treat those with nothing to offer us, the courage to speak when silence feels safer and the decision to continue creating and healing when despair would be easier.
Every act of presence in a numb world is an act of revolution.
And perhaps the highest awareness isnāt rising above the mess of the world, but returning to it with a healthy heart that continues to beat with the collective. A feeling heart and a raging, grieving, hoping heart.
Because beneath all apparent division, we are still made of one breath. What touches one of us, touches us all.
Itās not too late to be human again.
'Human', by Sophia @journalofthesoul
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