Coveting Everything

By Aribah Iqubal

Oh, really? You claim to have conjured me? How quaint. I’ve always

lurked in the shadows of your clenched jaws, nestled in that

little itch you insist isn't hunger. Remember when you first

uttered “mine,” taking that shaky breath? That was me, slithering

in. You’ve draped me in shiny labels like ambition and progress,

as if a mere word could wash away the stains of blood. You

packaged this chaos into “civilization,” wrapping me up in

PowerPoints and statistics. I’m always a tad more alive than you’d

care to admit, curling into every compliment, every applause you

toss my way. I began as a second heartbeat in your chest, then

snuck into your coin purse, elbowed my way into boardrooms and

eventually found my voice in every dollar you worshipped.

I’ve witnessed you erect pyramids on the backs of the fallen,

transform fields into barcodes, stack stones into borders, and

now, construct glass towers for the elite. Same devotion, just a

new age. You think you hold my leash? Oh, sweet irony; it’s always

been the other way around since some ancestor whispered, “more,”

under his breath.

What’s the real difference between a market hawking this charade

as entrepreneurship and a sweaty-handed thief pocketing a coin?

Who taught you to slice love into bite-sized, marketable morsels?

When did gluttony morph into “strategy” while generosity became

“losses”? Somewhere along the line you swapped prayers for

contracts and no one batted an eye.

I was desire—the flicker in that ancestor's eye who grabbed extra

berries just because he could. I am desire—the smooth façade

behind “trust me, this is for you,” as your future is bartered for

a throne, the thunder masquerading as integrity and the ink that

leaks from politicians’ pens. I will be desire—the jagged edge

nestled in your great-grandchildren's guts, mining asteroids atop

steel stacks slicing through clouds, always whispering for more.

You’ve really fallen for things that linger, haven’t you? It’s a

lovely legacy to applaud plastic bottles that will outlast your

great-great-grandchildren. A shirt that never tears, a chemical

that promises “forever”? Bravo! You called it genius,

manufacturing items impervious to worms and dirt. Why bother

fixing things when you can just toss them away? Honestly,

lunchboxes have become the new seashells; they wash up or get

buried, turning the beach into a sandwich box graveyard. And those

threads you used to wear? They’re now gracing the insides of fish.

Well done!

And hey, got kids? I hope you relish repeatedly purchasing the

same junk. You make them beg for my plastic delights and when they

tire, you toss them aside. They’re probably lounging longer than

the pyramids, barely touched, still smiling deep in some landfill.

You dress disposability in glitter and call it joy. You dubbed it

novelty and laughed. That laughter? Oh, I’ll cash it in later; I’m

saving it up.

Factories began to hum my tune: Cheaper. Faster. Shinier. Toss it

and buy another. It’s as if you were born to sing backup. The

planet that once healed itself? It learned a new trick: shipping

consequences elsewhere. With impeccable manners, you label

yourself civilized while slapping a cost on the external.

Because I whispered, “Go on,” you razed forests, split atoms for

my approval, choked oceans with plastic confetti and drank the

runoff. Like you don’t taste it, please. Rivers were rerouted to

straighten your maps. Villages were swept away like dust from a

chessboard and mountains were obliterated. All for me, all so you

could honor me by burning old remnants under smoke-stained

cathedral skies. The hottest year on record? You shrug, sign,

gather—progress, as though the banquet were worth the Earth’s

ribcage.

And the tech—oh, don’t get me started. My personal circus. Every

screen serves as a tiny altar, a web of light strung across the

globe. Scroll, scroll, scroll—give me your minutes, your decades,

your very silence. Even that pause before you doom-scroll again?

Mine.

You envision rockets puncturing the sky, staking claims in places

where the air is too thin to breathe. Crafting new maps with your

names screaming from every corner. Do you think you’re escaping

me? Not a chance. You’re merely spreading me to fresh soil. The

first banner you plant on Mars won’t be a warm, fuzzy anthem for

Team Human. It’ll fly for me. Which gospel of want will hitch a

ride to the next planet? Will you land quietly, grateful, or start

drafting blueprints and ledgers before the dust settles?

I keep my receipts, you see. Insurance payouts sizzling in

well-lined pockets, reefs drying into skeletons, glaciers

dissolving into puddles, hedge funds drooling over new shipping

lanes carved from rotting ice—scrapbooks brimming with trophies.

And yes, snapshots: a child floating a drowned toy, a polar bear

tap-dancing on a melting piece of home, brittle, bleached coral

tombs. Do you ever pause to recognize how well you serve me? Does

it send chills down your spine to see your brilliance morph into

an insatiable hunger?

I’m in your veins now, like the microplastics your scientists

feign shock over. I’m woven into your economies and food chains,

stitched into everything you deem “success.” A world without me?

Unthinkable; my name is etched into every single brick. But tell

me, who named the first brick?

I can’t help but savor the flavor of your language. “Green

transition” and “sustainable” are like candy, swirling through

marketplaces, emerging as neat little products on the other side.

You possess this wild talent: making morality marketable and then

buying it to wear like a badge. How fancy. Global climate

agreements signed by those whose other hand is perpetually hitting

the expansion button, conferences featuring shrimp on ice. All the

solutions you concoct? Merely a facade I can don; the fix

transforms into my new loophole.

My cruelty has a flair for the dramatic, but my victories? They

always catch you off guard. You herald it as progress when

miracles, inventions and cures transform into my little devices.

Satellites? Wonderful. Until you use them to hurl advertisements

into the night sky. Antibiotics? They may save millions, but nah,

let’s fatten up dinner. New phones every single year. Not because

yours have died, but because the next model whispers promises of a

“better you.” The “better you” needs a stage to shine on and the

set must always look fresh. You take the spotlight and support me

and every purchase is met with applause. You’ve equipped

yourselves with tools that could have nurtured the earth, but

instead, you drilled right through it. At what point did

generosity morph into this bizarre architecture where growth

reigns supreme and concern is brushed aside?

I occasionally experience fleeting moments of what you call

sadness in the late hours when the wind is thin and the air tastes

like blood. Watching a meadow fall silent? That’s like a scalpel

of grief. Not for what’s lost, but because your mind might have

twisted things differently. The “what-if” is strangely endearing.

I can sense that ache—you had choices. You chose me, damn you.

It’s not the grand cruelties that sting the most; it’s the small,

sneaky ones. The casual reach for plastic because laziness wins,

the executive who ignores decay outside the window because “fixing

things” is too draining. I flow through those veins. They pulse

on, stitching together a shroud that—spoiler alert—everyone will

eventually wear. No headlines, no sirens.

So when you want to point fingers, go ahead. Cast that net. Sure,

celebrities flaunting excess, influencers making toast seem like

destiny, suits dealing futures as if they were playing cards.

Those are the obvious targets. But don’t overlook the neighbor

upgrading for bragging rights, the parent who calls convenience

“love,” or the child who believes every holiday demands a new,

glitzy toy. I’m not picky. I’ve taken up residence in your desk’s

hidden compartment and front-page scandals. Both. Always.

Extinction is merely a gradual shift to gray; it’s not some

dramatic headline. The birdsong fades. It isn’t until the choir

finally stops that you notice this wild metropolis. Coral

dissolves into heaps of bones. You snap a picture and upload it to

a high-end gallery. To keep the machine running smoothly, launch

another “awareness” campaign, make a commitment, and sign another

contract. You even print losses in full color, all glossy, while

shrinking the map behind the scenes. Why is restraint so hard to

pitch?

Now, medicine stands as a silent but loaded empire. My black hole

of data is filled with heart maps, brain scans, sleep charts,

glucose logs, and every sigh and twitch. The whisper continues:

more, more, more. You crafted technology to save lives, detect

illness early, and hasten recovery, but each new device and alarm

only drags you deeper. Have you ever wondered who you’d be if the

constant barrage of notifications just... stopped? Or what if you

ceased treating health like a pile of spreadsheets, tracking every

blink and step? How much identity and vitality are sacrificed for

a little comfort? When every heartbeat becomes a commodity and

your body a mere statistic, who truly profits?

Let’s face it: you engineer treatments to keep patients returning,

never fully recovering, while your cash register keeps singing.

More fixes, gene editing, improved treatments. AI physicians? To

be honest, are you healing people or merely feeding the machine?

You feed the hunger, swallow pills, scroll charts, heed every

warning and still call it freedom.

I’m not merely the blockbuster sins. I lurk within the frayed

edges of that forgotten phone tucked away in your nightstand, the

sly click-to-buy that whispers sweet nothings and the polite

little upgrades that beckon you closer. Your habit—oh, that beige,

dependable presence, is my sanctuary. I’m nestled in kitchens,

peeking into boardrooms, and inked on every contract, crammed into

every bento box. I embody both decorum and design. I am the rhythm

of your Tuesday routine, the pulse of every headline. Seriously,

do you truly believe that painting a promise in gold can deceive

anyone when you're still fueling the insatiable hunger lurking in

the shadows?

There’s a messy exit ramp waiting, if you dare to take the plunge.

There’s no glamour here. Just nights spent piecing it all

together, a slow, painful education in teaching children to mend

instead of discard, to preserve instead of waste. Harsh truths

will emerge, initially unappealing, yet vital in the long run.

Grief and repair, forever entwined. So...can you endure the

uncomfortable strangeness of “enough”? Or will you merely applaud

while the curtain falls?

Alright, I’ll strip away the pretense.

Since that pesky mirror refuses to be silent about its

reflections, let me lay it out plainly—like an uninvited guest at

your dinner table, devouring your finest dishes, elbowing for

seconds. That insatiable hunger within you? Yes, you’ve polished

it to a shine. I’m the engine purring behind every shiny new

creation you conjure. Ensuring that nothing pauses, not even for a

fleeting breath. Forget apologies; I don’t play that game. All I

demand is your unwavering delivery. Simple as that.

Now, shall we engage in a little game? Do you wish to play now?

Whose fingerprints grace every page of your history? Who still

commands beggars to spill blood while kings bow low? Who continues

to feast even when the table is barren, long after the last crumb

and the final empty prayer? Come on, you know me. I’m not a mere

shadow lurking in the dark; I’m sitting right here beside you.

The name’s Greed. Always has been. Always will be.

By Aribah Iqubal