Systems look solid from the outside.
They speak in rules, procedures, and promises.
But once you stand close enough,
you see how easily they warp under pressure.
I’ve watched institutions collapse before—
not abstractly, but at arm’s length.
A department shut down without warning.
A workplace swallowed by someone’s ideology.
Structures that looked permanent
fell apart with almost no resistance.
That was the lesson:
a system never breaks suddenly.
It shivers first.
It sends out small signals—
a tension in the air,
a shift in tone,
a contradiction that no one wants to name.
If you miss those signs,
the collapse feels abrupt.
If you catch them,
you understand that the structure was already hollow.
I don’t place my trust in systems anymore.
Not out of cynicism,
but because distrust sharpens observation.
And in a world moving toward frictionless efficiency,
the ability to sense those early tremors
may become a form of survival.
