There is something poetic about a nation’s slow-motion collapse being mirrored in the dregs of a bottle of grain alcohol that tastes like a mixture of kerosene and fermented regret. Baijiu, the high-proof, sorghum-based spirit that has fueled every corrupt Chinese business deal and soul-crushing state banquet for decades, is currently undergoing what the locals call 'neijuan,' or 'involution.' For those of you who aren't currently watching your retirement funds evaporate into the ether, involution is the exquisite torture of a society that has reached the limits of its growth and has decided to spend its remaining energy cannibalizing itself. It is a race to the bottom where everyone runs faster just to stay in the same place, and in China, they are currently running that race while holding a bottle of liquid fire.

For years, the baijiu industry was the ultimate symbol of the Chinese Dream—a dream that consisted mostly of greasing the palms of local bureaucrats until you could build a skyscraper made of cardboard and hope. If you wanted to get anything done in the Middle Kingdom, you had to endure hours of competitive drinking, downing shots of Moutai until your liver begged for a quick, merciful death. It was a ritual of loyalty, power, and spectacular waste. But now, the party is over, and the hangover is proving to be terminal. The youth of China, facing a job market that offers all the prestige of a Victorian chimney sweep, have collectively looked at the expensive habits of their elders and decided to 'lie flat.' They don’t want the 53-percent-alcohol-by-volume sludge that their bosses use to sign off on ghost city construction projects. They want a future that doesn't involve vomiting in a karaoke bar at 2 AM while a Party official sings off-key.

The industry’s response to this decline has been as predictable as it is pathetic. When your core product is a status symbol for aging autocrats, and the next generation thinks you’re a dinosaur, you do what every dying corporation does: you try to be 'hip.' We have seen the arrival of baijiu-flavored ice cream and baijiu lattes. It is the corporate equivalent of your grandfather showing up to a funeral in a Supreme hoodie and trying to use 'rizz' in a sentence. It reeks of desperation. It is the sound of a billion-dollar industry screaming into the void as it realizes that its primary customer base is either retiring, being purged for corruption, or simply dying of old age.

But the 'involution' of baijiu is merely a microcosm of the broader economic malaise. In the West, we like to pretend our markets are different, but we are just as susceptible to this brand of frantic, pointless competition. Whether it’s tech bros in Silicon Valley burning billions to 'disrupt' the concept of a bus, or European bureaucrats regulating their own shadows to feel important, the end result is the same: a system that produces nothing but noise and debt. China’s version is just more honest because it involves a drink that can literally be used as a cleaning solvent. The market is saturated, prices are plummeting, and the producers are engaged in a price war that serves only to prove that nobody actually likes the stuff—they only liked the power it represented.

Now that the power is consolidating into a single, terrifying fist at the top, the mid-level grifters no longer need to impress each other with thousand-dollar bottles. The theater of the 'business dinner' is being replaced by the cold reality of a stagnating GDP and a demographic cliff that looks more like a vertical drop. The 'involution' of the spirit market is the ultimate admission that the growth-at-all-costs model has hit a wall. When even the most patriotic Chinese consumer decides that a bottle of the national spirit isn't worth the price of a month’s rent in a tier-three city, you know the narrative is broken.

Humanity, in its infinite lack of wisdom, always tries to mask its failures with consumption. If the economy is failing, buy a bigger car. If the country is sliding into authoritarianism, buy a more expensive bottle of liquor. But eventually, you run out of things to buy, and you’re left with nothing but the bitter taste of reality. China is currently staring at the bottom of the glass, and it turns out there’s nothing there but the realization that you can’t drink your way out of a structural deficit. The baijiu bubble hasn't just burst; it has evaporated, leaving behind a faint smell of industrial chemicals and the lingering sense that the world’s next superpower is currently suffering from a massive, self-inflicted headache. Don't worry, though; the rest of the world is right behind them, stumbling toward the same cliff, just with more expensive cocktails.