This is the world we live in. The sheltered cubicles we call home. Bricks and mortar, soft wood and the occasional steel bar or two – providing us with a sense of security, of comfort. I do not deny that these ramshackle structure provide for us. We are usually kept dry, often warm, and – to a degree, depending on the quantity of available toilet paper, comfortable. But do they keep us safe? The perception of safety, that within our own walls nothing will happen to us, is based solely on the concept of: “because – well – shouldn’t really,” is what is so beautiful, and horrifying about the human condition: our ability to live in our imagination. To believe what we are told. It is the glue that links us all – regardless of race, creed or religion. We are all believers.
We believe in a vast variety or gods and follow the rules that dictate those faiths, at the same time we believe in the borders of nation; telling us that we require papers and permits to cross invisible lines separating invisible nations and dividing one scrap of land into two. Our belief that no other car will cross the thin, white line that divide the lanes of the highway is so absolute that the line might be a Trump-size wall in its own might. And we believe that no one that we don’t invite will step into the little cubicle we call home – and more often than not people abide to that rule. But not always.
What happens when one of these illusions shatter? How do we react? Does the reaction vary depending on the size of the illusion shattered? Or can one, little breach cause the whole illusion of our reality to crumble like a house of cards that just had its first encounter with an inquisitive cat?