Ah, 2015. My golden twenties, the age of hope, hashtags, and handshakes. And the year humanity pulled off the greatest show on Earth (quite literally).
In 2015, the world’s most powerful leaders descended upon the Eiffel Tower to save the planet from the consequences of their own economic addictions. Everyone smiled for cameras under chandeliers, and signed with ceremonial pens made (presumably) from sustainably harvested optimism. They called it the Paris Agreement: a binding commitment to do something, someday, assuming the markets agree and no one’s re-election is at stake. Countries wrote their own Nationally Determined Contributions (a bureaucratic phrase meaning we’ll decide later what we feel like doing) and proudly submitted plans that were both ambitious and mathematically useless.
It was the perfect solution: everyone got to be a hero without actually changing anything. The headlines called it “historic,” “transformative,” “a turning point.” And for one glorious weekend, humanity congratulated itself for saving the world. Then, exhausted by all that global unity, leaders boarded private jets home to approve new oil pipelines and expanded airports.