"How did we end up here?"

HOW DID WE END UP HERE?

The trilogy finally reaches its conclusion in 2025. It’s not as though we ever intended to end up in this “Year Without Summer” When we began “Moving Mountains” a decade ago, our ambitions were different, more heroic, more optimistic. We set out on a shared adventure, pooling our resources and cultivating our friendship with a determined resolve to achieve the impossible.

In the end, we precariously climbed the “Moving Mountains”, only to descend upon “The Island”. Despite our adventurous enthusiasm and noble heroics, the camaraderie we once celebrated gradually shifted. From amateur explorers, we became (un)willing settlers. The innocence of friendship, under the strain of survival, dissolved into a game of pragmatic conformism. What began as an adventurous journey of friendly rivals became a contest of rivaling friends, each staking claims over conquered territory and negotiating the distribution of dwindling resources.

The pioneering spirit of exploration gave way to the mentality of settlers. It was during “The Island” that we realized we were, in fact, crafting a trilogy. And this trilogy, as if by design, began to reflect not only the evolution of our personal relationships but also the unfolding of the historical moment in which we live.

Between “The Island” and “The Year Without Summer”, the world changed dramatically. The COVID-19 pandemic swept across the globe. Donald Trump returned to power. We surpassed the 1.5-degree threshold of global warming. All boundaries seemed breached, and no man’s land began to feel like an improbable, shifting settlement. Here, in this cold desert, monsters are remade and awakened.

In the medium of time, we lost a goal to strive toward. In the medium of space, we lost the territory to defend. The five friends who once felt like a family now find themselves stranded in 2025, caught in a strange, undefined liminal space between everything and nothing. Here, all habitual orientations have been suspended, and ecology itself has become a new form of demonology.

In this suspended state, fond memories and familiar habits begin to resemble eccentricities without substance. What once inspired enthusiasm, our shared adventure and negotiated territories, now feels like inconsequential ornamentation, a fading fashion statement, a theatrical device.

It seems we are now navigating an adventure without moving a finger, occupying a territory that is constantly slipping from under our feet. The once-solid mountains have liquefied into stormy seas, and the island has become a raft without an anchor. We are no longer explorers, nor settlers, but glamorously gothic survivors trying to kill the time of the apocalypse by playing inconsequential games of luck with one another. No longer bound by affection or intention, we are united only by the catastrophic circumstances we face.

And we cannot help but wonder: What are these theatrical games that we keep playing (while waiting for the darkness to pass) telling us about the future? What awaits us on the other side of catastrophe?

Once, we stole fire from the gods and we became gods. But it seems our star moment is fading. We were gods for far too long. Now, the time is coming when the new form of life that we unwittingly have created will steal the fire from us. And, quite probably, the outcome will be much the same as before. Like the gods of old, we will become obsolete. If we are lucky enough to avoid annihilation, we will be reduced to decoration, an ornament. Perhaps that is why we are so obsessed with our self-image. Not much remains for us to care for - except appearances.