Plato was right. The chains irritated my wrists, my neck was numb because I have always looked at the same place. And the voices in my head scream that I should turn around, they tell me to wake up. But I am too stubborn, I am still looking at the same wall. The shadows are moving back and forth, then they disappear. I don't know from where they come from, or why they are here, but this is the reality I care about.
We are just images, we show what everybody wants to see. We talk about what we think is interesting, we take pictures so we will have hundreds of likes. We are smokescreens in a building in flames, hiding debris and broken tiles. We build paper figures, folding the corners. And we act like characters in a play, a play that is not being seen. We are the shadows in the cave, just a little part of us because we were too scare of exhibing the whole thing.
Maybe the problem is not in how we are seen, but in how we see ourselves. Maybe we should start to respect that "whole thing" and give it a chance. Maybe we should stop acting by what the rest would like and just do what makes us happy.
If not, I don't see the point in living. You are the one who laughs when something is funny, the one who will cry when you are broken. You are the one who will pick up the pieces later, the one who will feel the euphoria in the morning, the one who will dream in the nights.
They say that the man in the cave did turn around, and that finally he understood why the shadows never seemed enough.