It is a rare thing to be prescient of history as it happens: confronting, frightening even. No longer distinct from time or the decisions that shape our reality, we are forced to concede our agency. History, like all other culture, is a product of us. It doesn’t happen to people; it is something people make happen – and in this is incredible power. Our power.
The worm is turning. The revelations over the last few days feel like a crescendo, the crystallisation of what many of us have felt, but been unable to articulate. The centre cannot hold. We have grown too removed, our existence too precarious for the house of cards to maintain its shape. There is disturbance; collapse beckons. Not a Hollywood implosion, but a slower, more insidious decay… social unrest, unravelling lies; climate change, energy scarcity and a weakening centralised infrastructure. How tight the fingers that grip onto the last vestiges of power.