Life is like the Hunger Games, except we don’t know we’re in the arena. We live in our little bubble, knowing it’s shit but not knowing anything different. Every so often we reach the end, we hit the wall, we see a ripple of electricity across what should be sky, and we realize it’s all a sham and the world is much worse than we think. We poke a monster and see it move and only then do we glimpse its actual size. Only then do we understand the enormity of what we’re fighting.
Past the end is a desolate truth. Hit the wall and we’ll see a hint of what there is beyond, but it’s big and it’s ugly and it’s silent. Our little arena, with our little feuds and occasional deaths and murderous nature is much preferred. If we can stop hitting the borders we’d be able to forget there are any. We’d be happy. Until someone runs into the edge again and it starts all over.
No one wants to slay the monster beyond the walls of our content. The arena we built is safer, where the worst things we have to fear are each other and the arena itself. We do not want to face the creatures beyond, the monsters of our own making. We know we are capable of creating things even worse than ourselves. We’ve done it. We pretend it doesn’t hunt us by the thousands and when we can’t pretend any longer we pretend it’s okay that we’re dying. Anything we can do to avoid a fight we know we’ll lose.
But sometimes you’ve got to fight anyway.
Precarious Writer 