Hopium drifted through the air, thick and intoxicating. It came in two strains, distinct yet eerily similar in their effects. On one side, there was the hope that the system would hold, that the weight of laws, institutions, and precedent would act as an impenetrable wall against a man like Donald Trump. That the dignity of office would temper him, that the courts would contain him, that democracy—imperfect yet sturdy—would correct its course as it always had. This belief, this desperate trust, persisted even as the guardrails buckled, as norms were shattered, as the system exposed its vulnerabilities not just to those who sought to exploit them, but to those who had long assumed its invincibility.
On the other side, there was the hope that he was, in fact, the champion he claimed to be. That the bluster and bravado were merely rough edges on an unpolished savior of the working class. That he, unlike the others, would break the cycle of broken promises, would wield power against the oligarchs rather than among them. The rallies, the slogans, the cathartic defiance against elites—it all felt real, like a long-awaited reckoning. But reality was patient. It waited until the tax cuts favored the wealthy, until the factories continued to close, until the swamp he swore to drain became a deeper, murkier mire. By then, the hopium had done its job, numbing the sting of betrayal just enough to make another dose seem like the only option.
Two sides, inhaling from different pipes, both dreaming of a redemption that would never come. One side had believed the system was too strong to fail; the other had believed a man was strong enough to fix it. Both had underestimated how deep the rot ran, how thoroughly the game had been rigged, and how little their faith, their hope, had ever mattered to those who profited from it.
And so the cycle continued, the peddlers of hopium thriving, while the people—left, right, and everywhere in between—staggered forward, still waiting for the high to deliver on its promise.
