Basic logic—call it common sense if you still believe such a thing exists—dictates that once a wrong path has been chosen and it becomes clear that the path is wrong, people will pause, ask questions, and turn around. In theory, that’s how rational creatures behave. In practice, humanity prefers to double down, dig deeper, and die slower.
Because what we always underestimate is the sheer endurance of a wounded beast. A mortally struck animal doesn’t just fall over—it drags itself through the dirt for miles, leaving a long, pitiful trail of blood behind. Civilizations are no different. Mortally wounded companies have been seen limping on for decades, zombified by subsidies and nostalgia. Cities, regions, even entire nations have been known to stagger through full human lifespans before collapsing under the weight of their own rot.
This is not a race. It’s not even a marathon. It’s a death march in slow motion. Change, when it comes, will come all right—but so agonizingly slow that you might be forgiven for thinking nothing’s happening at all. You’ll still see the headlines, the slogans, the summits, the smiling idiots pretending it’s all fine. That’s the twitch of the corpse, not the spark of recovery.
People shy away from pain until they have no other choice. And that cowardice makes real reform—the painful kind, the necessary kind—impossible until it’s far too late. We’d rather live inside a lie than endure a week of truth.
Climate dogma, for example, may have peaked already. But don’t expect it to die gracefully. The corpse keeps shambling forward, propelled by inertia and stupidity, mumbling about “sustainability” as it decomposes. If you listen carefully, you can almost hear the bones grinding.