Dear Humans: A Letter from Planet Earth
What Our Home Has Been Trying to Tell Us—And Why Now Is the Time to Listen
Dear Humans: A Letter from Planet Earth
What Our Home Has Been Trying to Tell Us—And Why Now Is the Time to Listen
Dear Humans,
I’ve been meaning to write to you for some time. I suppose I’ve been trying to reach you in my own ways—through the wind that carries whispers across your mountains, through the oceans that ebb and roar with forgotten songs, through the trees that creak in the silence after the storms.
But lately, you’ve been too distracted to hear me. So I’m writing this letter instead, in the hope that you might finally listen.
You’ve called me many names—Gaia, Mother Earth, Terra. To you, I’ve been a provider, a canvas for your dreams, a place to call home. I’ve never asked much in return. I gave you forests for shelter and firewood, rivers for water, soil to grow your food. I cradled you through the centuries, even when you stumbled through wars and famine and greed.
But lately, I’ve been hurting.
Perhaps you’ve noticed. The air is heavier now—thicker with the fumes of your factories and cars. The ice at my poles weeps quietly into rising seas. The coral reefs, once so vivid with life, lie pale and brittle, as if mourning something they can no longer name. Even the animals, my oldest companions, are falling silent. So many of them have vanished, as if they slipped off the page of a story you stopped telling.
I tried to speak louder. I sent you stronger storms, longer droughts, more erratic seasons. I thought maybe then you’d pause. That you’d ask yourselves: Why is this happening? What are we doing wrong?
Some of you did. You marched, you protested, you planted trees and picked up trash. You created documentaries and built solar panels and whispered to your children that there might still be time.
But too many of you did not listen. You kept drilling, digging, building, burning. You wrapped yourself in comfort and consumption, convincing yourselves that progress must always come at a cost. That someone else would fix it. That the Earth would endure.
And I will—endure, that is. With or without you.
You see, I’ve lived through worse. I’ve survived the fire of forming, the ice of extinction, the long silence after the dinosaurs fell. I’m not afraid of change. I am change.
But you—you are fragile. Your cities, your families, your music, your dreams—they are precious, and they are new. You’ve been here barely a blink, yet in that time, you’ve created beauty and chaos in equal measure. You’ve written poems to the moon and sent rovers to Mars. You’ve healed diseases, painted sunsets, and crafted stories that stir the soul.
And yet, you are burning the ground beneath your own feet.
Please, hear this not as a scolding, but as a plea. I do not want your guilt. I want your attention. Your care. Your action.
Because now is the time. The window is narrowing, but it has not yet closed. You can still choose to change. You can reimagine your cities as green spaces that breathe, power your homes with the sun that smiles down every day, and protect the forests that still remember how to hold carbon in their roots. You can slow down. You can listen.
You often ask yourselves: What kind of world will we leave behind for our children?
But I ask you this: What kind of children will you raise for this world?
Raise them to respect the soil under their feet and the sky above their heads. Teach them to wonder, to restore, to protect. Let them know that nature is not a resource—it is a relationship.
Dear humans, I still love you. Even now, through the smog and sorrow, I see the sparks of your kindness. I feel it when a child plants their first seed, when a fisherman releases a bycatch back into the water, when a scientist whispers hope into data, when a community rebuilds with green in mind.
I am not asking you to be perfect. I’m only asking you to remember that you belong to me—not as owners, but as stewards.
Listen now, while you still can.
With hope,
Earth
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Muhammad Saad and writers in Earth and other communities.
The Use of Mobile Phones
It was 7:00 a.m. when Maya’s alarm rang—an upbeat tune playing from her smartphone. She groaned, reached for it, and hit snooze. Five minutes later, the alarm blared again, and this time, she sat up. She had a full day ahead: classes, errands, and a group presentation to prepare for. Before getting out of bed, she scrolled through her notifications—messages from friends, a reminder from her calendar, and a news update. This wasn’t unusual. In fact, Maya’s entire day revolved around her phone. As she got dressed for college, she opened a language-learning app to revise vocabulary. On the way to the bus stop, she called her mother, who lived in another city, and they spoke for a few minutes—a quick check-in. Once on the bus, Maya plugged in her earphones and caught up on a podcast discussing global issues. She felt connected, informed, and somehow, in control. Across town, Ramesh, a delivery driver in his mid-thirties, checked his route for the day on his phone. Without it, his work wouldn’t be possible. His employer sent customer addresses, and digital payments came through a mobile app. Ramesh often wondered how people managed before smartphones. He used it not just for work, but to talk to his wife during breaks, check cricket scores, and watch short videos to relax. Meanwhile, in a quiet village 300 kilometers away, twelve-year-old Anjali sat under a tree with her classmates. They crowded around a single smartphone, watching a science lesson downloaded by their teacher the previous evening. The school lacked a computer lab and internet access, but the teacher used his phone to bring in the world outside—a place where rockets launched into space and underwater creatures swam through coral reefs. For Maya, Ramesh, Anjali, and millions like them, the mobile phone had become more than a gadget—it was a bridge. A bridge between people, opportunities, knowledge, and services. Later that afternoon, Maya met with her groupmates at the library. They sat together, not with papers and pens, but with phones and laptops. One person gathered research articles, another created slides, and Maya coordinated with a classmate who was joining remotely. The project came together seamlessly. Yet, not all moments with mobile phones were positive. That evening, Maya and her friends went out for dinner. They sat around a table, each with a phone either in their hand or next to their plate. The conversation was sporadic—someone paused to reply to a text, another scrolled through social media while waiting for the food. Maya noticed the silence between them. It felt... odd. They were together, but not truly present. Across the city, Ramesh sat with his son, trying to help him with homework. But his phone buzzed with delivery updates and messages. Each time he looked down at the screen, his son’s frustration grew. “You’re not listening,” the boy finally said. Ramesh sighed, turned the phone over, and promised himself he’d switch it off after dinner. In the village, Anjali’s teacher held a community session, explaining the benefits—and dangers—of mobile phones. He spoke about how children could be distracted or misled by content online. “It’s a tool,” he said, “and like any tool, it depends on how we use it.” The next morning, Maya left her phone in her bag during her morning lecture. She found she listened better and took more detailed notes. After class, she sat on a bench outside and watched the campus come to life—students laughing, birds chirping, the soft wind rustling through the trees. She smiled. It felt refreshing. The world had changed, and so had people. The mobile phone had brought families closer, improved education in remote areas, supported livelihoods, and offered entertainment at one’s fingertips. But it had also blurred the line between personal and digital life, raised concerns about privacy, and at times, replaced real conversations with screen time. In the end, Maya realized, it wasn’t about using mobile phones less—it was about using them wisely. About knowing when to connect with the world, and when to disconnect and just be. As she walked to her next class, her phone buzzed. She paused, looked at the notification—and then slid it back into her pocket. Some moments, she knew, were better lived than captured.
By Muhammad Saad 6 months ago in Earth
Standing While Falling
Quotation from Friedrich Nietzsche "He who wrestles long with monsters should beware lest he himself become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Man is not destroyed by suffering, but by the meaning he makes of it."
By LUCCIAN LAYTH6 days ago in Critique
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.