Pa‘l Tropi

DARKSIDE

ROOM 509

BLOCKED

DOUBLE FACE

GRAVITY

NO HERO

THE LIST

Peace, Motherfucker

I scroll the headlines the way some guys scroll porn. Different screens, same shameful addiction. War here, blood there, leaders puffing their chests like pigeons on Viagra while the rest of us choke on the fallout. Everyone’s a savior when the cameras are rolling, but behind closed doors they’re just haggling over body counts like it’s a stock market.

Charlie Kirk gets shot on stage in Utah. Thirty-one, full of fire, full of hate, full of whatever cocktail of rage and charisma fuels those kids who think screaming louder equals winning. He opens his mouth about mass shootings, then becomes a goddamn headline himself. A bullet in the throat, irony so thick it could choke a horse. Extremism doesn’t wear a uniform anymore—it’s everywhere. In the mirror, in the neighbor’s Facebook rant, in the smug grin of the asshole sitting across from you on the subway.

Meanwhile, Israel and Palestine keep playing the same old dirge, bombs falling like raindrops on tin roofs, kids buried under rubble while the world argues over who threw the first stone thousands of years ago. The cycle never ends. Every side screams justice, every side delivers pain. Politicians parade “solutions” like cheap hookers—you pay, you smile, you know damn well you’re not getting what you asked for.

And then there’s Russia, still pissing on the doorstep of Europe, flying drones over Poland, playing Cold War cosplay like it’s 1962. Ukraine’s a battlefield, not just of territory, but of conscience. People die, and the world debates oil prices. Sudan burns, the Sahel starves, Libya cracks apart—and we scroll, double-tap, maybe shed a digital tear before moving on to memes and thirst traps. Humanity in the palm of your hand, reduced to pixels and apathy.

You want to know the truth? I don’t care about sides anymore. I don’t care whose god is older, whose border is holier, whose blood is purer. I don’t care who claims victimhood louder, or who waves their flag higher. Fuck all of it. I’m not Team Israel. I’m not Team Palestine. I’m not Team Russia, Team America, Team Democracy, or Team Dictatorship. I’m not red, I’m not blue, I’m not left, right, center, or upside fucking down.

I’m Team Peace. That’s it. The team no one seems to play for because there are no medals in it, no power, no profit. Just quiet nights, lovers’ laughs, and kids growing up without PTSD baked into their DNA. But peace doesn’t trend. Peace doesn’t get sponsors. Peace doesn’t sell guns, or security contracts, or election campaigns.

I don’t need utopia. I just need the world to stop killing itself long enough for me to have one good cup of coffee without the aftertaste of blood on my tongue. Stop blowing each other up, stop burying children, stop pretending your god whispers in your ear to justify genocide. If your god wants murder, your god’s a prick. And if your politics need corpses to thrive, your politics are fucking cancer.

Maybe I’m naive. Maybe the human race is too far gone, too addicted to hate, too wired for destruction. But I’m tired, man. Tired of pretending it’s complicated when it’s not. It’s simple: stop killing. Start living. That’s it. That’s the only rule worth following.

The world won’t listen, I know that. Tomorrow another headline, another war, another martyr, another bullet. But tonight? Tonight I’ll drink, I’ll fuck, I’ll laugh with whatever beauty is willing to put up with my bitter ass. Because if the world insists on burning, I’ll at least try to keep my corner warm with love instead of fire.

Peace, motherfucker. Is that really too much to ask?

THE WORLD ON FIRE

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