The Unseen Hands
What the World Pays So You Don’t Have To
You hold it in your palm.
A phone. A meal. A shirt. A luxury, a necessity, a simple thing.
But it is not simple.
It never was.
To make this one item—
A girl woke up before the sun.
Not to dream, but to stitch.
Fingers raw, eyes blurred, air thick with dust and silence.
She worked 20 hours that day.
There was no play.
Nets hung outside her dorm window.
Not for shade, not for beauty—
For bodies.
To catch the fall of those who tried to jump,
but weren’t allowed to die.
A boy, younger still,
dug through blood-colored soil to extract rare minerals.
No mask, no gloves, just heat and rock and orders.
He does not know what cobalt is.
He only knows pain and dust and the weight of silence
when no one is coming.
And then—
The item traveled.
Thousands of miles.
On ships that cut through oceans
leaving oil trails and dead zones in their wake.
On trucks that coughed carbon across borders.
On planes that scarred the sky
just to deliver convenience to your door.
Factories churned.
Rivers ran black.
Forests disappeared.
The cost was hidden
beneath price tags, discount codes, and sleek packaging.
Aesthetic wrapped in amnesia.
And now—
you unwrap it.
Tap it.
Wear it.
Eat it.
Forget it.
Replace it.
Toss it.
And the cycle begins again.
This is not about guilt.
This is about sight.
About remembering the bloodlines that pulse behind your comfort.
About no longer calling clean what was born in filth.
About honoring the invisible hands that have held up the illusion.
The Unseen Hand is not a myth.
It is a child’s hand. A mother’s hand. A dead man’s hand.
A hand that never asked for your pity.
Only your truth.
So ask yourself:
What kind of world are we building?
And how much are we willing to unsee to live in it?
And when you answer,
do it with open eyes.
And a sovereign heart.
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