After something that destructive, something that pointless,

a truly intelligent species would have looked at its work and recoiled in horror.

That should have been our moment.

Our first real chance to think.

To look at ourselves—not in a mirror, but under a microscope—and ask:

What the hell are we becoming?

And to be fair… someone tried.

President Wilson stepped forward with his plan. Naïve? Yes. Idealistic? Absolutely.

But at least it was a plan. At least it saw the blood and said,

“This can’t be how we live.”

Naturally, we ignored it.

Worse: we picked out the dumbest, most performative part of it—the League of Nations—and called it progress.

A global talking shop for people who'd rather sip tea than stop genocides.

The end of the Great War could have been a turning point.

A place where catastrophe birthed clarity.

But no.

We took the grief, the guilt, the shattered continents—and used them as bricks for a new kind of conformity.

We decided that the real threat wasn’t war or empire or hunger.

It was difference.

Individuality.

Free will.

The very things that had allowed civilization to survive until then were now treated like viruses.

And so we chose the treatment: obedience.

Sameness. Silence. Consensus.

And the disease spread.

There were still outliers.

Rogue thinkers. Obnoxious realists. Mad imperialists with a conscience—

Winston Churchill, for one—who, despite their flaws, saw beyond the mirror.

But their kind was rare.

And their kind is now extinct.

Today, conformism has won.

It’s not creeping anymore—it’s stomping.

We no longer resist the madness.

We elect it.

We invite it to rule.

We celebrate it.

In free nations, with free press and free thought, we now choose Mussolinis, Stalins, and even the occasional Pol Pot with a LinkedIn page.

How does this end?

Let’s not pretend we don’t know.

We disappear.

#JustLikeNeanderthals