Good day. And as the year draws to a close, it does so without resolution, without clarity, and without the consolations that often accompany prolonged conflict. There is no decisive breakthrough to point to, no strategic inflection that promises relief in the months ahead. Instead, the year ends as it has largely been lived: under the weight of accumulation—of losses, of costs, and of contradictions that can no longer be postponed.

For Russia, 2025 was meant to be the year in which the war settled into inevitability. The assumption, repeated endlessly in official commentary, was that Ukraine would tire first; that Western support would fracture; that Russia’s scale and endurance would quietly, inexorably prevail. But endurance is not a static asset. It is consumed as it is used. And as the year closes, it is increasingly evident that Russia’s reserves—economic, material, and psychological—are being drawn down faster than the narrative admits.

Militarily, the pattern has hardened into grim familiarity. Russian forces continue to press forward in localized sectors, gaining ground measured in meters rather than objectives. These advances are costly, manpower-intensive, and difficult to sustain. Equipment losses are compensated not through modernization, but through substitution—older systems, improvised logistics, and tactics that prioritize pressure over preservation.

It is in this context that some of the more unsettling images of the year have emerged. Footage circulated by Ukrainian units shows Russian troops attempting assaults using horses—employed to traverse terrain where vehicles are scarce or too vulnerable. These scenes are not evidence of romantic improvisation or clever adaptation. They are evidence of scarcity. They underscore a reality in which modern mechanized warfare is increasingly conducted with pre-modern means, while remaining just as lethal. Horses, like trucks before them, offer no protection against drones. The result is not mobility, but exposure.

This is the “meat-grinder” phase of the war laid bare: assaults conducted not because they promise decisive success, but because the system demands constant forward motion. Momentum must be demonstrated, regardless of cost. Losses are absorbed, written off, and replaced—until replacement itself becomes a strain.

In the air, the war has expanded further into Russian territory. Ukrainian drone strikes now reach with regularity into regions once considered insulated from direct consequence. Energy infrastructure, fuel storage, and transport nodes have all been targeted—not symbolically, but economically. The aim is not terror, but attrition: to impose friction on the Russian system at points where it is least elastic.

The effects are increasingly visible. In recent weeks, blackouts have been reported in parts of Russia, including areas close to Moscow, following drone activity and emergency shutdowns of power facilities. These outages are often localized and temporary, but they matter precisely because of where they occur. For a population long assured that the war would never touch daily life, even brief disruptions puncture the illusion of distance.

They also arrive at the worst possible time: winter. Energy systems under stress do not fail gracefully. They fail suddenly, unevenly, and politically. Each blackout becomes not merely an inconvenience, but a question: if this can happen now, what else can happen?

The Kremlin’s response to these developments has been instructive. Official messaging oscillates between minimization and dramatization. On the one hand, strikes are described as insignificant, easily repelled, operationally meaningless. On the other, extraordinary claims are advanced—such as alleged drone attacks aimed at President Putin’s residences. Where such claims cannot be independently verified, their purpose is less to inform than to reframe: to recast infrastructural vulnerability as personal threat, and thereby justify escalation, repression, or further sacrifice.

It is a familiar maneuver. When systems strain, symbolism is substituted for substance.

Economically, the picture is no less troubling. Russia’s war economy continues to function, but at a narrowing margin. Revenues remain constrained by sanctions, enforcement pressure, and enforced discounts. Logistics costs have risen. Insurance and transport bottlenecks persist. Meanwhile, war expenditures are not cyclical—they are structural. Contracts must be paid. Compensation must be delivered. Equipment must be procured, repaired, or replaced.

This creates a quiet but relentless squeeze. The state can still meet its obligations, but only by drawing down buffers, postponing investment, and accepting inefficiency. The danger is not sudden collapse, but sclerosis: a system that continues to move, but with declining responsiveness and increasing brittleness.

Politically, the language has shifted accordingly. Gone is the confidence of rapid victory. In its place are appeals to history, sacrifice, and national destiny. These are not the rhetoric of a leadership anticipating success. They are the rhetoric of a leadership preparing society for endurance without payoff.

Ukraine, for its part, ends the year damaged but coherent. Its strategy has been brutally pragmatic. Lacking the manpower for mass offensives, it has instead focused on imposing costs—economic, logistical, and psychological—on Russia’s war machine. Each refinery hit, each delayed shipment, each disrupted power node contributes not to spectacle, but to arithmetic. And arithmetic, over time, is unforgiving.

None of this suggests imminent resolution. On the contrary, the war appears locked into a self-sustaining logic. Russia cannot escalate without risking internal instability. It cannot de-escalate without conceding failure. Ukraine cannot relent without inviting subjugation. And external actors, while cautious, remain committed enough to prevent collapse, but not to force closure.

This is how wars become long.

As the year turns, then, we are left with a conflict that has shed its illusions. The promise of quick victory is gone. The claim of effortless resilience rings hollow. What remains is a grinding confrontation in which time no longer favors anyone, and where each passing month deepens the costs already incurred.

The New Year arrives not as a turning point, but as a continuation. And for Russia, that continuation—unresolved, increasingly intrusive, and steadily eroding—may be the most unsettling outcome of all.

This site is a rhetorical parody project. No part of it should be mistaken for Alexander Mercouris’s actual commentary.