Fuel

In the endless scroll of online arguments, one might hope to find the seeds of progress: the exchange of ideas, the gradual softening of rigid minds, the faint spark of understanding. And yet, more often than not, what we find instead is noise—an inferno of outrage that consumes everything in its path.  

The debates about Trump, the MAGA agenda, the Supreme Court’s rulings, or Keir Starmer’s every calculated move are not without value. A well-placed argument can shift a perspective, plant a doubt, even inspire change. But this potential is drowned in the ceaseless flood of tribalism and spectacle.  

Each post, each tweet, each comment becomes less about truth and more about performance. We are no longer speaking to each other but past each other, shouting into the void while the algorithms fan the flames. The platforms thrive on division, on engagement at any cost. Every insult, every half-truth, every oversimplified argument is another log thrown onto the fire.  

This fire does not illuminate; it blinds. It does not warm; it burns. It reduces complex issues to binary choices: for or against, good or evil, left or right. It demands allegiance, not thought. It rewards outrage, not insight.  

In this cacophony, the genuine voices—the ones seeking dialogue, seeking understanding—are drowned out. The fire consumes them too, leaving only ash and embers where there might have been growth.  

We must ask ourselves: Is the fuel worth the flames? Can we harness the energy of these arguments to light the way forward, or are we destined to burn in their heat? If we cannot rise above the noise, we risk losing not only the debate but the very ability to debate at all. 

 

Fuel 

It starts with a spark.  

A name. A tweet. A ruling passed  

in rooms we’ll never see.  

We gather, mouths full of flame,  

each word a match struck sharp.  

Trump. MAGA. The court, the law,  

Keir Starmer’s face framed  

in a headline’s glow.  

We shout like it matters,  

like the heat might bend the iron.  

But the fire doesn’t forge.  

It roars, it spreads,  

feeding on the soft pulp of thought.  

Algorithms cheer us on,  

hands clapping from behind the curtain.  

And here we are,  

fingers ash-black,  

voices hoarse with smoke.  

The ones who came to listen  

stand at the edges, silent.  

This isn’t light.  

It’s a bonfire of what could have been—  

a space for questions,  

a moment to understand.  

The fire eats everything.  

And still we throw more fuel,  

thinking, this time,  

this time we’ll see the flames  

turn to stars.