THE WORLD AFTER PERMANENT INFLATION
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No one really saw it coming, because everyone was looking the other way, mesmerized by the rising numbers, reassured by the idea that money could still be produced at will, convinced that scarcity was a superstition of another age. Inflation didn't arrive as a sudden catastrophe, but as a constant background noise, a warm breath that never stopped, a slow erosion of reference points until no one knew exactly what an hour of work, a political promise, or a lifetime of savings was worth.
At first, they were called adjustments. Then temporary crises. Then support plans. The words changed, but the direction remained the same. Always more money. Always more debt. Always more urgency. The future was systematically sacrificed to buy a few months of artificial stability. And every time someone spoke of limits, discipline, or scarcity, they were seen as a dangerous nostalgic.
Then one day, without official announcement, without a spectacular collapse, something stopped working. Not the markets. Not the banks. Confidence. It didn't collapse, it dissolved. Slowly. Silently. Like metal corroded from within.
In this world, after perpetual inflation, money is no longer a store of time. It has reverted to what it always was when distorted for too long: a short-term tool, an unstable token, a political message rather than a reliable measure. People continue to use it out of habit, but they no longer entrust it with their future. They spend it quickly. They transform it. They get rid of it as soon as they can.
This world is harsher. Not because it's cruel, but because it's finally honest. The ease of money had created an illusion of comfort. It had masked the real scarcity of resources, time, energy, and attention. When that illusion disappears, everything becomes clearer, sharper, more demanding.
In this future, comfort is no longer an implicit right. It is the result of a choice. Of effort. Of discipline. People no longer consume to reassure themselves, but to meet a real need. The superfluous does not disappear entirely, but it becomes what it should always have been: a deliberate, rare, visible, sometimes enviable, but never guaranteed luxury.
Work has changed in nature. Not because it has become more arduous, but because it has regained a direct link with the value produced. Useless jobs have disappeared without revolution or decree. They have simply dissolved, deprived of easy funding, unable to justify their existence except through Excel spreadsheets. What remains are the jobs that nourish, build, repair, protect, and pass on knowledge.
In this post-inflation world, time has once again become precious. Not in a poetic sense, but in a purely financial one. Every decision truly impacts the future. Postponing a problem is more costly than confronting it. Mistakes are no longer absorbed by abstract stimulus packages. They leave lasting marks. And this reality profoundly alters human behavior.
People talk less. They promise less. They plan more. They make fewer decisions under the influence of collective euphoria, because euphoria has become an expensive luxury. Easy optimism has been replaced by a kind of calm lucidity. No pessimism. No despair. A mature lucidity.
Technology hasn't disappeared. It has ceased to be a headlong rush. The innovations that survive are those that reduce dependence, not those that increase it. Fragile, complex, opaque systems have been gradually abandoned, not out of ideology, but out of weariness. Too expensive to maintain. Too unstable. Too reliant on unfulfilled promises.
In this future, sovereignty is no longer an abstract political concept. It has once again become a daily practice. Knowing how to repair. Knowing how to store. Knowing how to verify. Knowing how to say no. Local communities have gained importance, not out of romanticism, but because distance is expensive when energy is scarce and trust has once again become a fragile asset.
The state still exists, but its role has changed. It no longer promises abundance. It guarantees continuity. It no longer buys social peace on credit. It arbitrates, protects, and decides. It is less loved, but more respected. Or sometimes less respected, but less hypocritical. Citizens no longer ask it to solve all problems. They ask it not to create new ones.
In this world, saving has regained its meaning. Not as sterile accumulation, but as a reserve for the future. People no longer seek to beat inflation through constant gambling. They seek to preserve their ability to make choices. Scarcity has become an ally, not a threat. It imposes limits, but these limits give structure to reality.
Bitcoin hasn't replaced the world. It hasn't solved everything. It hasn't made people better. It has done something else. It has provided a stable point of reference in an unstable environment. A clock in a universe of manipulated calendars. Those who understood this early didn't become rich by magic. They became freer in a more constrained world.
In this future, we no longer speak of bull markets or bear markets. These concepts belong to the era of monetary excess. We speak of cycles of effort and rest. Of periods of building and consolidation. Of long-term choices. The noise has subsided. Not because everything is fine, but because the constant spectacle has become too costly to maintain.
The media still exists, but they shout less. They know that attention is scarce. That gratuitous fear is exhausting. That emotional manipulation has diminishing returns when people no longer have the financial resources to absorb the psychological shocks. Sensationalism has given way to rawer, sometimes harsher, but more useful information.
This world is not comfortable. It is not egalitarian. It is not gentle. But it is coherent. And this coherence produces a strange kind of inner peace. People know where they stand. They know what they can lose. They know what they can build. The future is no longer an abstract promise. It is territory to be conquered, slowly, patiently, deliberately.
Perpetual inflation had numbed our sense of consequences. This world has made them visible again. Every decision counts. Every sacrifice, too. There's no more magic button. No more unlimited bailout. No more endless debt to mask collective mistakes.
And paradoxically, it is in this accepted hardship that a solid form of hope is reborn. Not the naive hope of a return to artificial abundance, but the mature hope of a world where the rules are clear, where scarcity is known, where freedom is earned, and where the future is no longer bought on credit, but built block by block.
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