Donald Trump's return to power is not just a political event. It is a visible symptom of a deeper process—the advance of "enTRUMPia," a wave of chaos that seems irresistible. Radical polarization, expanding wars, nuclear risk, climate collapse. The world is reorganizing itself around fissures, not bridges. If entropy is the natural tendency of any closed system toward collapse, Trump acts as a catalyst. An agent accelerating disorder, destabilizing institutions, corroding the fabric of social trust, normalizing the absurd. But is he the cause or merely a reflection of a larger process? Perhaps Trump is not the virus, but the symptom of a global autoimmune disease.

In a healthy organism, the immune system protects against external threats. But when it fails to recognize its own cells, autoimmune disease is born. Today's society suffers from the same ill: we have lost the ability to recognize the "other" as part of the same body. There are no more adversaries, only existential enemies. Dissent becomes heresy. Social networks function as unregulated super-antibodies, attacking any divergent thought, while dialogue, that thin fabric that sustains coexistence, breaks down at every corner, in every family, in every digital bubble. The "internal enemy" is now an idea, a vote, a belief. The result? A social organism in a state of chronic inflammation, fighting against itself, while real threats—climatic, geopolitical, economic—advance without coordinated resistance.

If we understand the planet as a large organism, as suggested by James Lovelock's Gaia hypothesis, we are facing a systemic collapse that seems to culminate in the dystopian science fictions of streaming platforms. But entropy, in nature, is not necessarily synonymous with extinction. It is often the fertile ground for transformation. Collapse opens space for the new. Biomimicry teaches us this. Some seeds only germinate after fire. Extreme heat breaks dormancy, allowing regeneration. What, in our society, lies dormant, waiting for the shock of chaos to awaken? The subterranean networks of fungi and roots remind us that beneath the soil lies another world, invisible but essential—a fabric of collaboration and interdependence. And ant colonies show that intelligence doesn't need to be centralized; it can emerge from the collective, from the sum of small actions.

Perhaps what can save us is not at the center of the system, but at its edges—in those hybrid territories where different forms of life and thought meet and contaminate each other. In nature, edges are zones of high biodiversity, where life is richer and more resilient. The meeting point between land and sea, forest and field, river and its banks. The social equivalent of these edges are the spaces where cultures intersect, where disciplines dialogue, where dissent generates creative friction instead of destructive conflict.

Think of grassroots movements, collaborative economies, and solidarity networks that emerge in times of crisis. They are like pioneer species, preparing the ground so that others can flourish. Participatory budgeting in some cities, for example, is a form of decentralization inspired by ecosystems, where decision-making power circulates, creating resilience. The same happens with restorative justice initiatives, which seek to heal social wounds through dialogue, instead of punishment.

But perhaps the most important lesson of biomimicry for this moment is to recognize that we are not outside of nature. We are nature. If it collapses, we will collapse with it. And, in this sense, the ancestral cosmologies of indigenous peoples, especially the Amerindians, have much to teach us. For them, there is no separation between what is culture and what is nature. The mountain, the river, the wind, the sun, and the moon are related. Just as the objects and technologies they produce are also nature. For the Yanomami, for example, the bow and arrow are not just hunting tools; they carry a spirit and are part of the symbiotic relationship with the forest. The bow represents the extension of the hunter's strength and intention, while the arrow, in flight, carries not only the energy of the human but also that of the environment that sustains it.

In the tradition of Arctic peoples, such as the Inuit, ice houses are more than shelters. They are seen as temporary organisms, breathing with the climate and the rhythm of the community. The igloo is built with the environment itself, using compacted snow, and disintegrates back into the ecosystem when it is no longer needed, leaving no trace. It is part of the natural cycle, not something separate from it. The relationship with the world is not one of possession, but of belonging. Time is not a straight line towards progress, but a cycle of constant renewal. It is not about romanticizing the past, but about remembering that there were (and still are) forms of life that are not based on the illusion of separation. Peoples who understood, long before any scientific theory, that true strength lies in interdependence.

Similarly, perhaps we should recognize that artificial intelligence and other exponential technologies are extensions of the same vital process that created us, and we can see them (and give them meaning) not only as threatening tools, but as inherent parts of the complex solutions to the unprecedented challenges we face. Everything is part of the problem. Everything is part of the solution. What will make the difference is our ability, even in the midst of chaos, to take a deep breath and catalyze the collective strength, for from there comes our success as a species. After all, the creative force of evolution has never been about separation, but about connection.

If “enTRUMPia” is the perfect storm, the antidote lies on the margins, in the transitional spaces, where new forms of life can emerge. Chaos is not the end. It is the terrain where forgotten seeds finally find the conditions to germinate.

Nature does not fight against collapse. It goes through it, learns from it, and reinvents itself. Perhaps that is what we inevitably need to do.