Trust is the infrastructure that allows us to have a society. It’s the roads, the signs, the painted lines that let us move through life without constant renegotiation. Institutions—courts, elections, schools, the press—depend on this infrastructure to carry meaning, decisions, and responsibilities from one place to another.
Now imagine waking up to find the asphalt torn up in chunks. Lane markers repainted to nowhere. Street signs vandalized or missing. Tires burning under overpasses. Nothing catastrophic. Just relentless small-scale sabotage—enough to make every trip harder, slower, riskier. At first, people are angry. They demand answers. They call for repairs.
But soon, the complaints start to shift.
“It’s too expensive to fix all of it.”
“We’ve patched that stretch three times already.”
“Maybe people shouldn’t rely on these roads so much.”
“Everyone’s got GPS now—just find another way.”
Some even say the damage proves the roads were poorly built to begin with. Not worth saving. Not worth trusting again.
And so the city adapts—not by fixing the roads, but by redefining what counts as a road. People buy heavier vehicles. They treat breakdowns as personal failures.
That’s what weaponized unreality is doing to public trust. Not erasing it, but warping it. Making the broken routes seem normal, and blaming anyone who still expects the roads to work.