When the Mask Devours the One Who Wears It

In the depths of this world—so resembling a never-ending stage play—it has become nearly impossible to tell the smiling wolf from the devouring man. Masks have ceased to be mere instruments of performance´-or-deception-;- they have become structures within the architecture of life itself. Wolves now don the garments of humans not merely to fool others, but to convince themselves that what they do is not predation, but necessity. What tragedy is this, where mercy becomes the slogan of hyenas, and justice the anthem of foxes? We do not dwell in a forest of trees, but in a jungle of faces—faces that, the closer you get, the more you realize that their masks are more honest than their features.

Roars no longer echo, nor do howls inspire fear. Lies have grown polite, and claws have become elegant. Betrayal is now sculpted in the mold of promises, and disappointment wears the cloak of wisdom. Is it the height of intelligence to carry out your savagery with eloquent phrases?´-or-is this the pinnacle of moral collapse—when brutality hides behind the mirror of reason and conscience? In this forest, words are no longer bridges—they are traps, moving like snares while wolves glide across the stage of power, cloaked in light, deceiving the eyes and numbing the hearts.

As if this earth was not made to be sown, but to be devoured. No law prevails here except that of the sword drawn´-or-the tongue polished. Principles are sung, slogans are hoisted—but beneath them, souls are butchered in the name of order, and justice is stolen under the guise of law. Goodness has become a costume, not a deed-;- and the human being, a “potential creature,” swings between the guise of an angel and the appetite of a beast—certain of neither.

And amid these terrifying divisions, we are left wondering: Who is the human? Is he the one who suffers?´-or-the one who fabricates suffering to justify his crime in the name of emotion? And who is the beast? Is it the one who tears flesh?´-or-the one who devours a promise, betrays a vow, and stabs his closest companion while smiling? The confusion between appearance and essence is no longer a matter of unclear vision, but a crisis of identity. Fangs are no longer bared—they are wrapped in the cotton of sweet words, so that we wake to find ourselves shaking the killer’s hand and weeping on his doorstep as if he were the victim.

What a paradox—that beauty becomes a curtain for ugliness, truth a robe for lies, and mercy a storefront for boundless cruelty. How many radiant masks conceal utter darkness behind them? How many hands reached out for a handshake while hiding a dagger in their sleeve? Innocence is lost—not because the wolf devoured it, but because the victim grew comfortable in its cage.

In the end, man is not asked to become a wolf to avoid being devoured, nor a lamb to be laid upon the altar in the name of purity. What is demanded is that he awaken from his moral slumber, strip away the garments of illusion, and redefine humanity. Not everyone who speaks wisdom is wise, not everyone who smiles is a friend, and not everyone who touches your heart deserves to remain in it. Do not be fooled by the one who whispers love to you—it may be the last voice you hear before the truth sinks its teeth in.

The reclamation of humanity from its forest does not begin with slogans, but with a courageous confrontation of the self. Only when we cease fearing the truth will we understand how deeply we’ve been deceived—and how deeply we’ve deceived ourselves. So open the eye of your heart before the eye of your face, and look around—not through the lens of appearances, but through the lens of awareness. Are those around you truly human?´-or-have the wolves mastered the art of acting?

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