Alive in 2035*

I still remember how the horizon looked just 10 years ago: a steady, reassuring line of gray silhouettes beyond the city’s outskirts. Back then, a future shaped by climate chaos seemed more like the backdrop of a grim science fiction film than the cold reality we face every day. Now, in 2035, those silhouettes are no longer visible—obscured by a haze of smoke, dust, and long abandoned hope.

My morning routine has become an act of near-desperation. I step outside into an early summer day with temperatures that often exceed 110°F. The air feels thick, suffocating, and the ground under my feet cracks with every tentative step. Some say this is just the “new normal,” as if normalizing such drastic changes is the only way to cope. But the shift isn’t merely in temperature; it is in spirit, in expectation, in the way people’s eyes flicker with fear and desperation.

No single development is solely responsible for the chaos unfolding worldwide. In 2025, scientists and environmental advocates warned of cascading tipping points and their consequences—rising seas, more frequent hurricanes, devastating wildfires, the extinction of species critical to our ecosystem. Now, in 2035, each of those threats has begun to crystallize into daily life. It’s not just the frequency of natural disasters, but their magnitude that is shocking. Last year, a super typhoon devastated entire stretches of coastline in Southeast Asia, forcing millions of people to flee in a matter of days. Many remain displaced, living in overcrowded camps plagued by waterborne diseases and acute food shortages.

The land I stand on, once stable and reliable, feels altogether fickle. Our region’s rain patterns abruptly shifted two years ago. Instead of the gentle, seasonal rain that nourished farmland, we get bursts of torrential downpours that flood fields one month, followed by months of parched soil. Farmers have largely given up on predicting yield; as a result, local produce has grown expensive, and the government rations basic staples. Bread prices have doubled. Meat—especially beef—has vanished from most markets, as feed costs soared and water remained scarce. Even basic fish stocks have collapsed in some regions, thanks in large part to warming oceans and acidification killing coral reefs and driving aquatic life to cooler waters or to extinction.

When news broadcasts air—whenever the unstable power grid allows it—I’m confronted by images from around the globe: unstoppable wildfires in the American West and parts of Southern Europe, unstoppable floods in coastal cities, unstoppable droughts in Africa. Entire species have vanished from the wild: pollinator populations have plummeted even further, making the once simple act of growing fruit a challenge requiring artificial pollination programs. Governments that can afford it have begun using drones equipped with pollination technology. In less developed regions, these solutions are a remote luxury, leading to barren orchards and collapsing economies.

Some governments still cling to the idea that technological breakthroughs will rescue humanity from this predicament. Solar geoengineering, carbon capture, and climate-modifying satellites—those terms often appear in hopeful headlines. Yet, daily life reveals a tragically harsher reality. Technological fixes are slow to implement, expensive, and rarely equitable. The few large-scale carbon capture plants that exist run at partial capacity, strapped by underfunding and hamstrung by the scarcity of resources once taken for granted—fresh water and stable energy grids.

Meanwhile, the people around me focus on immediate survival. Those who can afford to move away from affected coasts have done so, crowding inland cities where infrastructure is already strained. The cost of living has skyrocketed, and conflict over resources has intensified. To access drinkable water, many neighborhoods rely on intermittent shipments by the government. Lines at distribution centers stretch for hours under punishing sun. Tensions run high; fights break out, sometimes turning fatal. The desperation for water, for a single commodity that used to flow from taps without a second thought, underscores how vulnerable we’ve become.

Occasionally, I travel to the outskirts of the city, where farmland is now an expanse of brittle husks. I volunteer with a small non-profit that tries to distribute drought-resistant seeds and set up micro-irrigation systems. The last time I was there, I saw once-fertile fields turned to sand. Farmers, faced with repeated crop failures, have either given up or joined the growing ranks of climate refugees. In many places, the topsoil has blown away, leaving a barren layer of rock-strewn dust. Without enough trees or plants to anchor the soil, even a moderate breeze can stir a choking cloud of grit. Masks designed for viral pandemics are now part of everyday fashion, if only to keep the dust from scouring our lungs.

Airborne diseases—malaria, dengue, and other mosquito-borne illnesses—continue to spread northward, thriving in the new, warmer climate zones. We thought an end to certain tropical diseases was near, but they’re resurging with a vengeance. Hospitals are overwhelmed; even the wealthier nations struggle with repeated waves of illnesses, many antibiotic-resistant.

The social ramifications are equally grim. Communities fracture as neighbors turn against each other in the scramble for supplies. Several extremist groups have taken advantage of the chaos, capitalizing on the disillusionment of those who feel betrayed by ineffective leadership. Governments around the world either tighten control over populations—instituting curfews, limiting travel, rationing energy usage—or collapse entirely. Places that once boasted strong democracies find themselves on precarious footing, as the public grows more frustrated by each broken promise of relief.

The national and global picture remains largely bleak. Even if we’ve managed to marginally reduce our carbon emissions this past year, the climate continues to spin deeper into chaos. Systems set in motion decades ago cannot be reversed overnight. The speed at which glaciers are melting and oceans are warming has far surpassed conservative estimates from the early 2000s. Seaside towns, once magnets for tourism, lie deserted; rising seas flood roadways and erode foundations. Some coastal cities invest heavily in expensive seawalls, but whether they can hold back the tides over the coming years is questionable. More climate migrants arrive daily, carrying whatever possessions they still own, fleeing submerging homes.

Every day, I grapple with questions I never thought I’d face: Will there be enough water to keep my garden alive? Will the electricity hold so I can keep my small freezer running for the vegetables I’ve managed to preserve? Is there a safe place to flee if the wildfires grow too close this summer? These questions define my survival in 2035.

In the evenings, I stand beneath the smoky-red sky, remembering a time when children ran freely in the streets, playing under a gentle sun. I recall how the world looked when the oceans were predictable, the seasons followed a schedule, and ice sheets felt eternal. The overwhelming sense is that we are standing on a precipice, not knowing if the next step will lead to safety—or plunge us deeper into chaos.

I write this not as a call for pity, but as a warning for whomever may read these words in the future. In 2035, our collective failures have manifested in ways once deemed impossible. The time we lost, the half-measures we took, and the willful ignorance that blinded too many—all have a cost. If nothing else, let this record stand as a testament to the fragility of life on Earth. Let those who read this remember: nature is not just a backdrop, but the stage on which all our stories unfold. And the stage, once taken for granted, is now fighting back with a vengeance.

*Note. This essay was written by GPT o1, with the help of Ruben Schaer based on the prompt:

“Write a dystopian essay predicting events in 2025 using this list as a guideline for your predictions: https://climatecasino.net/2021/10/top-40-impacts-of-climate-change/“

I edited the text in parts, removed several referenced to ‘hope’ and changed 2025 to 2035, because, well, things are just not as bad as this essay paints. Yet.