There was a time when fear was a survival instinct. A useful alarm bell that warned us of real danger. But something changed. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, fear stopped being a warning—and became a religion.
It began with the masks. Remember those? People double-layered, triple-layered—hell, some even wrapped scarves around their heads like hostages to invisible enemies. They wore them in grocery stores, in parks, and yes… alone, inside their cars. You’d drive past and catch a glimpse of their eyes, wide and anxious above a surgical mask, as if the virus was hiding in their glove box, waiting to pounce.
Then came the shots. One wasn’t enough. Two wasn’t either. They rolled up their sleeves like obedient children at a school nurse’s station, begging for another jab, another hit of “safety.” They mocked those who hesitated. They cheered for mandates. They traded freedom for comfort like it was a fair deal.
And they didn’t stop there. A flag appeared on their profile pictures. Blue and yellow. No context. No nuance. Just, “Stand with Ukraine.” Overnight, they were experts in geopolitics, parroting headlines from glowing rectangles. Ask them where the Donbas is? Blank stares. But the screen said “support,” so they did.
Then it got warmer. Too warm. The sky was falling, and the sea was rising, and the only answer was to surrender your car, your stove, your sense. “Trust the science,” they hissed, even when the science flipped like a weather vane. They nodded along. If the TV said it, it must be true.
And now? Now they’re voting. Marching like zombies toward the next “approved” savior: Mark Carney. Who is he? What does he stand for? Doesn’t matter. The talking heads smiled when they said his name. So they followed. Like moths to a bug zapper.
They don’t know him. They feel him. And feelings are facts now.
This isn’t about policy anymore. It’s about obedience. Belonging. These aren’t voters, they’re disciples. Their church is the screen, their gospel is the narrative, and their savior is whoever’s trending.
Meanwhile, the rest of us watch with a sick feeling in our stomachs. Not from fear—but from the knowing. Knowing that when the lights go out, these same people will still be looking for answers on a dead screen.
And by then, it’ll be too late.
