It was the fall of 2024. The leaves were doing their autumn thing — burnished reds, crisp yellows — perfect for a drive into Pennsylvania. Shortly after crossing the New Jersey state line, the scenery shifted. Trump flags hung with the permanence of porch lights, outnumbering Biden signs by what felt like 100 to 1.

After the election, the flags didn’t come down right away. They lingered like holiday lights in March — faded, wind-flapped, defiant. But by spring, they were gone. All of them. As if packed away with the plastic Santas and patriotic bunting.

US President Donald Trump’s approval rating has cratered to 45% — a record low for any postwar president in their first quarter — except, of course, for his own first term.

Yet online, you wouldn’t know it. Social media still hums with MAGA fervor, the comments sections undeterred if not emboldened. In the virtual town square, the Trump train still runs express.

A recent cable TV survey revealed Fox News commanding a 59% share of the prime-time news audience among 25-to-54-year-olds. CNN trailed far behind at 17%. It sounds dominant until you check the headcount. Fox’s prime-time audience? 345,000 people. That’s 0.1% of the US population. Not exactly a mass movement — more like a crowded dinner party with production values.

Meanwhile, the real action is online. According to Pew, 86% of American adults now get their news from digital devices. YouTube personalities have built media empires: Ben Shapiro has 7 million subscribers. The Young Turks boast 6 million. Sean Hannity’s radio show reaches 14 million listeners. These aren’t just platforms; they are ecosystems.

And they are sealed tight. These media spheres don’t trade in news — they manufacture narratives. There’s no distinction between reporting and opinion, between what happened and what it means. It’s all one frothy ideological milkshake, shaken, not stirred.

In a recent segment, the hosts of New York Public Radio subjected themselves to 12 straight hours of right-wing content. They emerged dazed, like researchers back from Chernobyl.

The divide isn’t just political. It’s metaphysical. Two realities hermetically sealed, running on parallel tracks. The possibility of a shared national conversation? Gone. Replaced by algorithm-fed outrage and tribal reinforcement.

Each side is convinced that the other is either brainwashed or bloodthirsty. The imagery is apocalyptic: one half sees a savior marching toward greatness; the other sees a wrecking ball headed for the foundation of the republic. There’s no middle ground when the other side is the end of the world.

In rural Pennsylvania or New York, the economic decay is physical. Boarded storefronts. Empty factories. Roads that haven’t seen fresh asphalt since the Cold War. The American dream, hollowed out. Meanwhile, the coastal elites cash in stock options, slurp oysters and speculate in ultra-luxury real estate.

The result? A system that works for the few and fails the many. GDP growth headlines mean little in places where the post office is the last functioning institution. And just like rural America watches Wall Street but never touches its wealth, countries abroad watch the dollar dominate even as they quietly prepare alternatives.

And then there’s the fatigue. Keeping up with American politics feels like binge-watching a bad reality show that never ends — just new seasons with a similar cast. Somewhere between doomscrolling and disengagement, I found myself in a souvenir shop in a sleepy town. Amid the mugs and faith-based merch was a small bar of soap that read, “I can — and I will.” A profound reminder we are not helpless if we concentrate on our inner strength.

The world feels like it’s closing in. But we’ve lived through worse. A global pandemic shut down the planet. Supply chains snapped. Economies buckled. Somehow, we endured.

We’ll get through this too.

[Avery Ewing edited this piece.]

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Fair Observer’s editorial policy.