Your Chaos, Our Burden

Dear past generations,

Some days I wonder — is it truly my responsibility to fix a tragedy, which was built before I was born? Amidst the bustle of the city lies the reality that we won’t face, the clock ticking until the world’s shoulders break. Until it won’t be able to hold the countless defects from generations, you will remain careless.

Returning from 7 hour classes, I walked through the terrain of black smoke, the familiar one — which formed the ironic background of my childhood. At night, the stars you once said lit up the sky, hidden. The dreams you wish I could reach, stray far. They said the moon’s beauty is indescribable, but how can I know? How can I know if I can’t witness it behind the layers of pollution, built by you.

Why must our world rank money before humanity? Above the future of children, the people who will hold it together. Why must oil be valued above a soul, each barely holding on to a thin thread.

Yet, when youth speak, when they express concern and anger, they are seen as powerless, as if their knowledge is meaningless.

You started the mess, you initiated the chaos, and we are expected to clean it. We are in charge of bringing the “mop” and the “cloth” while you’ll be in peace.