May 9, 2024: A Whirlwind Tour of the Planet’s Shared Delusion We Call ‘Today’

Somewhere between the International Date Line’s smug self-importance and Greenwich’s pompous meridian, Thursday, 9 May 2024 has already arrived, departed, and staggered home drunk in most time zones. While half the planet is still fumbling for the snooze button, the other half is deciding whether to delete the day’s browser history. From this rotating carousel of human denial we call Earth, today’s date is less a number on a calendar than a shared hallucination we renew every twenty-four hours—like renewing a gym membership we’ll never use.

In Kyiv, citizens wake to the 806th day of a war that was supposed to last a long weekend. Air-raid apps ping with the regularity of a bored metronome while diplomats in Geneva discuss “urgent de-escalation” over canapés that cost more than most Ukrainians earn in a month. Meanwhile in Moscow, the state news insists it’s still February 2022 and everything is going according to plan—an approach to temporal mechanics that would impress even the most creative quantum physicist.

Across the Atlantic, the United States is enjoying its 497th day of pre-election purgatory, a period scholars will someday call the Eternal October Surprise. Campaign ads now outnumber actual programmes on some cable channels, offering Americans the thrilling choice between two elderly men who both think TikTok is a breath-mint. Wall Street, ever the rational actor, has responded by pricing in “existential dread” as a new asset class. Futures in despair are up 3.2 percent at noon.

Further south, Brazil is staging its own daylight-saving debate, the national pastime second only to football and political corruption. Congress is split between those who want to abolish time changes and those who simply want to abolish time. In Rio, Christ the Redeemer throws open his arms in an eternal shrug, clearly as confused as everyone else.

Over in Beijing, it’s already tomorrow—except the government insists it’s still today, just more patriotic. Tech workers file out of their 9-9-6 schedules to discover that the date has quietly mutated into a national “Celebrate Innovation Day,” complete with mandatory inspirational videos and optional overtime. In Xinjiang, the clocks have been set to Beijing Standard Time despite the sun’s rude refusal to cooperate, proving that even photons can be re-educated.

Europe, meanwhile, has decided the most pressing issue of 9 May is whether to put warning labels on olive oil. The European Parliament—fresh from declaring pizza an intangible cultural heritage—now turns to the existential threat posed by extra-virginity. In Strasbourg, aides draft 800-page impact assessments while forgetting to call their mothers. Somewhere in Brussels, a bureaucrat files a motion to rename the day “EU Schuman-Fit-for-55-Potential-Olive-Oil-Crisis Awareness Thursday.” It passes unanimously.

Down in Africa, the world’s youngest continent greets the date with the weary optimism of someone who’s seen too many well-meaning NGOs. Farmers check weather apps that still think they live in Kansas; fintech startups promise to “leapfrog” development straight into predatory lending. In Lagos, traffic achieves the density of a dying star, proving that black holes are really just rush hour with better PR.

And in the micro-nation of your own skull, today’s date is whatever crisis you’ve decided to doom-scroll before breakfast. Climate collapse? Fascism 2.0? The fact that your sourdough starter has achieved sentience and is now unionizing? Take your pick; the algorithm has a personalised apocalypse for everyone.

Yet for all our synchronized wrist-slapping at midnight, the planet spins on, indifferent to our clever calendars. Somewhere a child is born who will live to see 22 May 2124, and somewhere else an old soldier dies still waiting for the armistice that was signed a century ago. The date is just a bookmark in a story we keep pretending we’re writing, even as the margins fill up with someone else’s doodles.

So happy Thursday, dear reader. Set your watch, but don’t get attached; tomorrow we’ll all agree to call it Friday, and the con continues—punctually, absurdly, forever.