To Whom This May Concern

To Whom This May Concern,

I write this letter with a heavy heart, sickened by what we’ve become, yet clinging to the faint hope that these words might pierce the darkness we’ve wrapped around ourselves. We call ourselves humans—a title rooted in the earth itself, from the Latin humanus, tied to humus, the soil, the ground we walk on. It reminds us we are earthly beings, formed from dust, meant to be humble stewards of this beautiful blue planet. But that name feels like a hollow echo now. There is another name awaiting us, the one we truly are when we align with our divine essence: children of the Creator, or divine sparks, luminous souls made in the image of infinite Love. We were never meant to be mere “humans” scrambling in the dirt; we are eternal beings of light, called to reflect the Creator’s boundless compassion. Yet we’ve strayed so far into the shadows that we’ve forgotten our true nature entirely.

Consider the formula for love, so simple, so profound, drawn from ancient wisdom: Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and the door shall be opened unto you. These are not passive suggestions—they are active, persistent commands. Keep asking with an open heart, and provision flows. Keep seeking with genuine intent, and truth reveals itself. Keep knocking with faith and persistence, and barriers fall. Apply this formula earnestly, and love trickles down—not as a trickle, but as a flood. It builds communities where no one hungers, shelters the homeless, heals the sick, and lifts the afflicted. In a world of such abundance—vast lands for growing food, even in our own yards; enough resources to feed, house, and clothe every soul—love would transform scarcity into plenty. The end result? A heaven on earth: harmonious societies, where empathy reigns, children thrive without fear, and the planet blooms in shared stewardship. Joy multiplies, divisions heal, and we live as true reflections of the Creator’s light.

But oh, how we’ve chosen the opposite. We’ve followed a twisted formula for crashing and burning, the formula of no love: Ignore, and it shall be withheld; hoard, and you shall never find; shut the door, and it shall remain locked. We ignore the cries of the suffering, hoard wealth in the hands of the few, and bolt the gates against the stranger. The filthy, greedy elite allow the poor to sleep on cold streets while empty mansions stand vacant and shelters go underfunded. Corporations rake in billions while children starve in plain sight. We wage wars over resources we already have in excess, pollute the air and waters that sustain us, and turn a blind eye to the afflicted because compassion would cost us comfort. The consequences are immense: broken families, rising despair, mental anguish epidemics, environmental collapse accelerating toward catastrophe. The stench is unbearable—greed, indifference, exploitation—a foul rot that chokes the air we breathe.

How can every individual live with themselves? We’ve created hell on earth, and it’s almost impossible because this planet is a masterpiece of provision. The Creator gave us everything: fertile soil that yields endless harvests, oceans teeming with life, forests that purify and shelter, renewable energy in sun, wind, and water. Seasons cycle in perfect rhythm, ecosystems self-regulate in awe-inspiring balance. True hell should be barren, devoid of beauty or hope—but here, beauty surrounds us in every sunrise, every child’s laugh, every blooming flower. We’ve had to work deliberately, relentlessly, against this abundance to manufacture suffering. We’ve distanced ourselves from the Creator, chasing illusions of power, money, and control, until we’ve plunged into darkness. It’s black where we are—no light in sight—because we’ve extinguished it ourselves, preferring ashes to embrace.

We are the canary in the coal mine, gasping as the toxic fumes of our own making rise. The ultra-rich barricade themselves in fortresses of luxury, while the very poor huddle in despair, forgotten. Lines have blurred; men and women alike have grown weak, passive, complicit. Where are the voices of courage? We sit back and allow this to fester until the whole thing burns—cities in flames from unrest, ecosystems in collapse, societies fractured beyond repair. Ashes will be all that’s left: a scorched earth, empty thrones of wealth, echoes of what could have been.

Yet the formula for love remains right there, unchanging. We know it. We’ve always known it. Why do we run from it? Why self-destruct when paradise is within reach?

Wake up. Ask. Seek. Knock. Before the darkness consumes us entirely.

With sorrow and urgent hope,

A fellow soul in the shadows, longing for light

Robin Campbell