When electricity fails, civilization doesn’t vanish in an explosion—it rots in silence. Refrigerators warm, tempers fray, and the glowing idols of our age flicker out. What follows isn’t drama, but decay: food spoils, order falters, and trust collapses. Life after reliable energy is less apocalypse, more suffocation. And it’s already begun.
Once, the world shrank—compressed by coal, oil, and jet fuel into something you could circumnavigate between Friday lunch and Sunday dinner. Today’s prophets of progress promise a “green future,” but without hydrocarbons, the globe will swell monstrous again. Air travel dies, cities starve, and eighty kilometers will feel as impossible as Jules Verne’s eighty days.
Imagine civilization run on applause instead of physics. We traded coal for candles, stability for sentiment, grids for flicker power. The activists cheered, the elites clapped, and the engineers warned in vain. What follows is not utopia but feudalism, not freedom but rationing. And when the lights finally go out, you’ll know why.
Shale is not a miracle—it’s a mindset. While rentier states gorge on legacy wealth, a new generation of oil farmers is emerging: dirty boots, data dashboards, and no patience for grand illusions. They don’t pray for oil—they milk it, year after year. This is the gospel of grit. The future bleeds, sweats, and iterates.
In 1973, OPEC discovered the oil lever — a weapon that could make the world tremble without firing a shot. For decades, it worked. But every empire rots from within. Addiction to easy money, the rise of shale, and the limits of fear have left the cartel fighting a final, unwinnable war.
Out of that revelation grew today’s climate gospel: a cult that forbids doubt, sells fear, and feeds empires. The Holy Church of Climatology thrives not on science, but on obedience—and its altar burns hotter than Venus itself.