The Future Is Canceled
We're stuck in the perpetual present, now.
We are a society adrift. Not because we lack the tools to build something better, nor do we lack the intelligence (though that point is more arguable). It’s because we've forgotten why we should, in the first place. Somewhere between accelerating technology, monopolistic corporate power, capitalistic greed, money in politics, the loss of labor unions and the gutting of workers’ rights, and defending collapsing institutions, we stopped imagining a future worth wanting. It should be no wonder that we’re so demoralized. Or why we're just bracing for impact.
Every day, we’re hit with a fresh wave of disasters. Political chaos, climate collapse, economic precarity. Social media feeds us a constant diet of fear and fury, and we’re addicted to it. We’re also addicted to a lot of other shit, too. We scroll. We post. We rage. All pressure-release valves, so we don’t build, so we don’t even want to, so we forget how. The narratives that once pointed us forward—the New Deal, space exploration, peace movements, saving the planet, equality, equity, even the promise of globalization—have either been destroyed, bastardized, failed, or been co-opted into marketing campaigns. What’s left is noise. What’s left is what turns a profit—packaged rebellion, corporate empathy, brand-safe dissent.
You can feel it in the air. Young people don’t dream—they optimize. They efficiency-max. They algorithm-tweak. They survival-hack. Everyone's branding themselves instead of becoming someone. Hope is passé; irony is currency. And it’s been this way for my entire adult life. We’ve replaced future-thinking with nostalgia loops and algorithmic dopamine. Cities feel hollow because they’ve been hollowed out. Institutions feel like sets because the rules for us aren’t the same as the rules for them.], and the people meant to hold them to account only act like they represent us while they actually represent them and their money. Friendships fracture along ideological lines because ideology is now intertwined with morality and identity and and and… Community is a buzzword and an advertising angle. Vision is a myth. You’re naive for ever having believed anything you’ve ever heard. It feels like we’re fucked because we have been, over and over, for decades.
But history tells a different story. We’ve been here before—on the edge of ruin, only to crawl back with something bold. In the depths of the Great Depression, when everything felt broken (because it was), the New Deal didn’t just patch holes—it reimagined the role of government, labor, and community. It gave people jobs, yes, but more importantly, it gave them purpose. It didn’t just help remake the country, it made it stronger, and it helped reform our vision of what our country could be. The moon landing wasn’t inevitable, but it was something to look forward to. Civil Rights weren’t granted—they were fought for, planned for one step at a time over decades (and still to this day), but always hoped for, envisioned. Every leap forward began with a vision someone dared to articulate and others dared to believe in. That’s what it feels like we’ve lost: not ability, but direction. Not innovation, but meaning. We’ve lost collective purpose.
The future isn’t canceled because it’s impossible. It’s canceled because we abandoned it. We stopped dreaming, stopped sharing those dreams, stopped believing they were worth the fight. The people meant to lead us don’t dream either—they negotiate with decay. We need to remember how to imagine again—not just for the escapism (though some novel, original, hopeful entertainment is absolutely necessary), but for survival. Without vision, without direction, without momentum, we rot. With it, we can soar. We have the tools, the intelligence, the people. Until we find the courage to believe in something beyond the perpetual present, we’ll stay trapped in the waiting room of history, staring at a door that no longer opens, waiting for someone to come in and save us. No one’s coming. We’re all we have.
