a history of dirt and circuits

We were born on borrowed time.
Fed from borrowed land.
Spoke with mouths full of other people’s futures.

In the beginning—
there was mud.
And blood.
And bones ground into bread.
Fertility sucked from the skulls of the dead.

“Progress,” they said.
But the Thames was foaming shit
and the soil couldn’t breathe.

It all started a robbery.
A loot-the-earth, piss-it-away economy.
It clocked the rift—
that tear between hand and land,
the break in the metabolic script.

Cities rose
like fists.
And fell like ash.
Steel veins, factory breath,
all sweat, no give-back.

The land was a ledger.
The body a transaction.
History?
Just a spreadsheet of extraction.

She spoke to seeds.
We coded her silence.
Now drones read thirst, and kids sip data.
and the earth?
Still spinning,
but not for us.

I once saw an AI write a love song to the forest
while chainsaws screamed through it.
And still—
still—
they call this Progress.

But there’s power in the wound.
Truth in the leak.
Break something open
and something speaks.

We were never meant to conquer.
We were meant to compost.
To restore.
To listen
To break the circuits of control,

So.
You,
child of data and bone—
this is your inheritance:
A history that screams
A future that listens