The cost of our success is the exhaustion of natural resources

Host: The sun hung low over a vast, cracked landscape — a forgotten industrial field, once full of machines, now littered with rusted metal, silent turbines, and broken glass. The wind carried the faint scent of oil and burnt soil.

In the distance, a lone factory chimney still exhaled a ghost of smoke, like a dying beast refusing to rest.

Jack sat on the hood of an abandoned truck, a cigarette between his fingers, its smoke rising lazily into the dying light. Jeeny stood a few feet away, her boots sinking slightly into the dry, powdery earth. Her eyes traced the horizon — a place where the last colors of the sky fought against the creeping grey.

Jeeny: “Christian de Duve once said, ‘The cost of our success is the exhaustion of natural resources… If we continue in the same direction, humankind is headed for some frightful ordeals, if not extinction.’”

Host: Her voice was soft, but the words seemed to echo through the emptiness around them.

Jack: exhales smoke slowly “He wasn’t wrong. Just late. The ordeal’s already here.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s too late to turn back?”

Jack: shrugs “You don’t turn back from a cliff once you’ve jumped. You just hope the fall’s short.”

Jeeny: “That’s grim, even for you.”

Jack: “It’s real. Look around, Jeeny. This was the price of progress — the factory, the trucks, the oil fields. They called it growth. I call it self-cannibalism.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through, kicking up small spirals of dust that glowed in the evening light. The faint metallic clink of a loose sign echoed — the word “FUTURE” barely visible beneath the rust.

Jeeny: “You talk like we had no choice. Like destruction was inevitable.”

Jack: “It was. The moment we decided comfort mattered more than consequence.”

Jeeny: “But we can’t live without progress. Without energy. Without technology. You can’t expect the world to go back to candles and wells.”

Jack: “No, but maybe we could’ve stopped before we burned the whole damn candle at once.”

Jeeny: “You mean before capitalism burned it.”

Jack: smirks “Same thing.”

Host: The sky deepened into bruised purple. The last light stretched long across the broken field, catching in Jack’s eyes — tired, cold, but not without regret.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up.”

Jack: “I haven’t given up. I’ve accepted the math. Every barrel of oil, every forest cleared, every glacier gone — it’s all debt. And like every debt, someone’s gonna pay.”

Jeeny: “Then who pays, Jack?”

Jack: stares at her “The ones who didn’t spend it. The kids.”

Host: His voice cracked slightly, and for a moment, even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny: “You talk about it like it’s someone else’s fault. But you drive. You use power. You live here. We all did this.”

Jack: “Yeah. And that’s the worst part. We built the gallows with our own hands.”

Host: A distant thunder rumbled — not from the sky, but from deep beneath the earth, a low mechanical growl from buried pipelines, still alive under the soil.

Jeeny: “But if we did this, we can undo it. We can learn, adapt. There’s still innovation, renewable energy, activism — people fighting every day.”

Jack: shakes his head “Innovation built this mess, Jeeny. You think it’ll save us?”

Jeeny: “It might. It’s not the tools that are wrong, it’s the hands that use them.”

Jack: smiles faintly “That’s the kind of faith I used to have. Before I watched men trade trees for towers.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re just two kinds of growth, Jack. One destroys, the other heals. We just picked the wrong one.”

Jack: “And now we’re out of time to pick again.”

Host: The sun disappeared completely, leaving only the soft orange burn of the horizon. The factory silhouette became a black monument — a tombstone for ambition.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “You’re about to tell me anyway.”

Jeeny: “I think extinction isn’t just biological. It’s moral. We’ve already started going extinct in our hearts. Every time we ignore the forest fire, the flood, the drought — we lose a little more of our humanity.”

Jack: “And yet, people keep living. Buying, building, pretending. Maybe denial’s the only thing keeping us sane.”

Jeeny: “Denial’s what killed the world. Not greed. Greed’s just hunger. Denial’s blindness.”

Host: A sudden silence fell. Only the faint hum of distant power lines broke the stillness — a dying current, struggling to exist.

Jack: quietly “You ever wonder if nature will forgive us?”

Jeeny: “Nature doesn’t forgive or punish, Jack. It reacts. Like a mirror. We poisoned it, and now it reflects our sickness.”

Jack: nods slowly “Yeah… poetic way to say karma.”

Jeeny: “It’s not karma. It’s logic.”

Jack: “And what’s your logic say happens next?”

Jeeny: “Collapse. But maybe not the end.”

Jack: arches an eyebrow “Optimistic, aren’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. Hopeful. There’s a difference. Hope doesn’t deny the darkness — it just refuses to be swallowed by it.”

Host: The moonlight began to rise, silvering the rust and rubble, giving even ruin a strange, haunting beauty.

Jack: “Hope’s a fragile currency.”

Jeeny: “So was oil once. Look what we did with that.”

Jack: smirks “You think hope can power the planet?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can power the people who’ll save it.”

Host: A thin smile touched Jack’s lips, the kind that hides both admiration and fear.

Jack: “You know, de Duve warned us decades ago. He said if we kept going like this, extinction wasn’t a theory — it was an appointment. And here we are. Right on schedule.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to reschedule.”

Jack: “And how do you propose we do that?”

Jeeny: “By remembering that success doesn’t mean surviving the world. It means deserving to.”

Host: The wind softened. Somewhere far away, a bird — rare now — called once, faint but clear, a fragile echo of persistence.

Jack stubbed out his cigarette, watching the last ember die like a setting sun in miniature.

Jeeny bent down, scooped a handful of the dust, and let it fall through her fingers.

Jeeny: “Everything we build turns back to this. But maybe — just maybe — we can learn to build differently.”

Jack: “You think the earth will let us try again?”

Jeeny: “Only if we listen this time.”

Host: The night deepened, vast and silent. The factory lights went out one by one, until the only glow left was the faint silver of the moon reflecting off the broken glass.

Two figures stood amid the wreckage — one burdened by guilt, the other lit by belief — both staring at the same horizon, where destruction and rebirth waited side by side.

And as the wind whispered through the ruins, it seemed to carry a single, fragile truth —

that even in the ashes of progress, the earth still holds its breath,
waiting to see if humankind remembers how to exhale gently again.