The Suicide Gene

Humans got evolution right.

For a while.

Like every other species —

eat, fuck, survive, repeat.

No memoirs. No meaning.

Just biology doing what it does best:

persist.

But boredom —

boredom was our original sin.

We ran out of predators

and made each other the prey.

Built fires. Built fences.

Built flags to die for,

and names to kill in.

We invented God

to answer silence —

then silence became unbearable,

so we invented noise.

We learned to think,

then turned thought into trade.

Learned to speak,

then weaponized it with grammar,

accent, pedigree,

and theatre.

We made love a contract.

Turned touch into transaction.

Wrote rules for attraction

and still got abandoned.

We drew lines on maps

and taught children to hate colors.

Painted freedom in vivid symbols —

then sold it at the marketplace.

We carved machines

to carry our laziness.

Invented roads to nowhere

so we could chase meaning faster.

We birthed numbers,

and then let numbers birth

worth.

Now, net worth

is self-worth,

and death

needs validation.

We taught empathy to stone

because we unlearned it ourselves.

We cured the fever

but not the fracture.

We replaced instinct

with identity,

and now spend years

trying to remember

what we were

before we learned

to be human.

And still,

we call this empowerment.

Still,

we call this growth.

No other species

made their own extinction

a design.

But we?

We made downfall

a ritual.

Lit the match.

Clapped the flames.

And called the ashes

civilization.