A Speech from the Future

Good evening, Earthlings…

Oh, pardon me, that term is nearly extinct now.

Waterlings, perhaps? No? Hydrophobes? Hmm… Forgive my sarcasm.

I speak from the year 2194,

Where your grandchildren gasp for tears—

For even crying is a luxury we cannot afford.

I stand on what once was the shore of the Ganges,

Now just dust in the shape of memory.

We gather today not around water,

But around the idea of water—

An ancient myth, like dragons or dignity.

Let me tell you a bed-time story your ancestors forgot to tell you:

Once upon a time, there was a thing called “Rain.”

It fell from clouds, not from machines.

It kisssed the Earth, made love to the soil,

And flowers blushed under its touch.

Children danced in puddles.

Poets compared it to love, mothers, silk.

Rivers sang lullabies. Oceans roared with pride.

But you—you with your sprinklers, your leaky faucets, your goldfish funerals—

You mistook miracle for mundane.

They say water is tasteless.

They lie. It tasted like youth, like purity, like forgiveness.

It quenched thirst and anger alike.

It cooled tempers and boiled philosophies.

It turned lonely seeds into orchards of companionnship.

But now…

We sip from recycled breath.

We filter urine and call it divine punishment.

We pay more for a cup of synthetic “blue” than a diamond.

Why?

Because you thought luxury was oil, not essence.

Because you worshiped gasoline and laughed at the wells.

Because you paved paradise and built spas instead of springs.

Ah, water… the kindest friend we betrayed.

It never asked for fame.

It never demanded applause.

It came quietly—bathed your soul, cleaned your filth,

And left without asking for gratitude.

Water gave you the ability to sweat—

So you could work hard.

It helped your brain function—

So you could write poems, invent rockets, love wisely.

It filled your eyes so you could weep honestly.

And in the end, it left your body as tears—

To mourn its own death.

Yet, when the last glacier wept, you didn’t listen.

You were too busy bottling tears into plastic trophies.

You sold purity in poisoned packaging.

You branded water and called it “profit.”

You wasted lakes to rinse luxury linen.

But water was never just a resource.

It was a religion.

A god, misunderstood.

A teacher, silenced.

Spirituality?

True piety was hidden in a single drop.

The one that fed a thirsty crow.

The one that cooled the brow of a fasting man.

The one that a mother held in trembling palms

To cool her fevered child.

O Humanity!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!...

You were meant to be beautiful.

You were sculpted from clay, animated by breath,

And softened by water.

It made you humble. It made you kind.

Without it, you grow hard—

Like statues of ancient sins.

You learned to weaponize everything:

Money, medicine, morality—

And now, water.

Armies march not for flags, but for fountains.

Wars are baptized in blood because no rivers remain.

This was never a sci-fi prophecy.

This was your choice.

You chose longer showers over longer survival.

You chose car washes over crop fields.

You let your greed drink what your children would need.

And now?

Even regret tastes dry.

But let me not just criticize—

Let me remind you of the miracle.

Water forgives.

Yes, it does.

Even now, if you dig deep, somewhere…

An aquifer still hums hope.

If you listen to the trees,

They whisper hydration’s hymn.

If you find one drop—just one—

And honor it like an angel,

Perhaps, the sky will return your loyalty.

You see, water never hated you.

It loved you too much.

It played with your children.

It clothed your food.

It sang in your showers, blessed your rituals,

And mourned your sins.

Yet you let it die.

You let it be corrupted by ego and indiference.

You forgot that the strongest men kneel to drink,

And the wisest bow to water.

Still, I offer optimism.

Not because it is deserved, but because it is necessary.

We must rebuild—not empires, but ecosystems.

Not skyscrapers, but sky rivers.

We must learn the language of clouds,

Translate the tears of glaciers,

And whisper apologies to the ocean.

Perhaps then, the rain will forgive.

But how?

Start with reverence.

Not policies, but prayers.

Not legislation, but love.

Replant the wetlands.

Recycle not just plastic—but purpose.

Resurrect the wells with community, not companies.

Stop buying water as product.

Start blessing it as presence.

and.....

Teach children that the true measure of wealth

Is not the size of the pool,

But the purity of the puddle.

Tell them stories where the hero saves a stream.

Where romance begins under a waterfall.

Where the villain is a leak ignored.

And when it rains—

If it ever rains again—

Dance.

Don’t document!!!

Don’t monetize.....

Just dance, like your ancestors did

When survival fell from the heavens.

In closing…

You thought you were made of stardust.

You are, in truth, made of water.

You are 70% forgiveness, 100% fragile.

Your blood is a river.

Your breath is a wave.

Your tears are echoes of the divine.

Lose water, and you lose yourself.

So save it—not for “them,” but for you.

Not for Earth, but for your soul.

For without water, there is no life.

Without life, there is no love.

And without love, there is nothing.

Thank you.