Earth is Sick!!

It’s 2 a.m. I wander the hospital with a stethoscope around my neck. The smell of chemicals drifts through the corridors, mingling with the low hum of monitors and fragments of distant conversations. My body aches, heavy with fatigue, but curiosity keeps me moving, step by step.

What is the diagnosis? Who is this patient? What story is written in his body?

Is his family kind to him? Is he eating properly?

I study his skin—indentations, scars, bulging veins—each a clue of a life endured. I step into the ward. He looks exhausted, toxic even. Sweat drips down his temples and fists clench. I press my stethoscope against his chest.

Thump… pause… thump…

A heartbeat, uneven, murmuring. A soft whoosh, like a cry for help. Feeble, fading, leaving its trajectory behind, yet still insisting on being heard.

Thump… pause… thump…

Then my mind drifts. I see Earth lying somewhere beyond the ward. What if a divine physician examined her? Would they lean close with curiosity? What would they hear?

Are her children kind?

Are her veins flowing clear and clean?

Are there hives, boils, colonies of infection across her surface?

Does she need a reset?

Thump… pause… thump…

I once read that Earth has a heartbeat.

Does it murmur before some syndrome emerges? Is it faint, like it is giving up?

I press my hands to the invisible chest of the planet, trying to feel its rhythm, the same way I listen to the frail pulse before me. I don’t know. But Earth is sick. And tonight, in the quiet hum of a hospital, I feel it echoing with the murmur of every heartbeat I touch.