They tell us humanity is broken.
Flawed. Irredeemably tribal. Too emotional, too short-sighted, too mortal. And because we are broken, they say, we need fixing. Their fix. Through their technology, their platforms, their off-world colonies, their digital afterlives.
They deem to have diagnosed us all with a terminal disease, and the name of that disease is being human.
But here is the cruelest irony: they are not wrong about the despair they feel about their fate, they are simply wrong about its cause.
The tech billionaires bankrolling global conflict, hoarding planetary resources, and dreaming of of gated communities that can live up to the rarified standards they can afford are fickle fancies that forge dystopian ideologies and degenerate worldviews. Forsaking self fulfillment for privacy and pandering privilage to obfuscate reality has zero chance of finding happiness or fulfillment. Hoarding trophies and treasures is futile if living life to the brim is priceless and having all the money in the world is irrelevant in the event that living life well is vested in the presence we share without favor or fear, freely available to all and sundry. Their misery is real.
But it is not because humanity is broken. It is because they are trapped in prosperity.
The Hall of Mirrors
When you can buy your way out of every inconvenience, every struggle, every moment of friction, you do not arrive at peace. You arrive at anhedonia—the total inability to feel pleasure. Because meaning is not something money buys. Meaning is something you earn through effort, failure, repair, and growth. Remove the friction, and you remove the grip.
These men live in a rarified world where no one says no to them. Where every interaction is mediated by wealth and status. Where the only remaining frontier is total control—over markets, over information, over the very architecture of human attention.
And when total control still fails to produce joy, they do not look inward. They look outward. They conclude: It is reality that is broken. It is humanity that is defective.
This is not wisdom. This is the hallucination of privilege.
The Rot at the Root
History has seen this before. Every declining aristocracy confuses its own decadent boredom with cosmic insight. The late Roman elite looked at the masses and saw brutes. The courtiers of Versailles grew so insulated from ordinary life they thought cake was a reasonable substitute for bread. The Gilded Age robber barons built pleasure palaces and then fled into nervous breakdowns.
In every case, the rot was not in the common human condition. The rot was in the exclusive worldview—the belief that because they could not find happiness, no one could. That because their lives felt empty, existence itself was a flaw to be transcended.
But civilizations do not fall because ordinary people are too tribal or too emotional. Civilizations fall because a small, insulated class hoards wealth and power until the social fabric tears—and then blames the tearing on the people below them.
The Demand for Abolition
This brings us to the only honest conclusion.
Social classes that act with impunity, demand privilege, and afford entitlement are not a natural order. They are a failure mode. They are a parasite that grows until the host collapses.
And they must be abolished.
Not reformed. Not regulated into gentler shapes. Abolished.
Because as long as any class can insulate itself from consequence, it will mistake its own pathology for universal truth. It will burn the actual, beautiful, messy world to build a sterile one where it might finally feel something. And it will call this destruction progress.
We do not need to be saved by men who cannot save themselves. We do not need to be fixed by a worldview that is itself the disease.
What We Already Know
The rest of us already know how to live. We have known for three hundred thousand years.
Meaning lives in the grain of ordinary things: raising children, tending a garden, cooking a meal for someone you love, feeling rain on your face, laughing until your stomach hurts. These are not problems to be solved. They are the whole point.
The billionaires' despair is real. Let it be theirs. Let them solve it the way everyone else has to—by touching grass, by facing limits, by learning that you cannot purchase the one thing worth having: a life among equals, accountable to something larger than your own reflection.
But do not let them redesign the species to fit their isolation.
Do not let them erase living memory in the name of their own emptiness.
And do not let them pretend that a privileged, entitled, impunity-protected class is anything other than what it has always been: the bane of civilization's rise, and the surest herald of its fall.
Abolish the class. Save the world.
It is that simple. And that hard.
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