The Jungle Has No Shepherd
They say the world is a pasture, and you're born a sheep—soft, sheltered, content. You’re taught to walk in herds, stay in line, graze when told, and sleep without fear. And for a while, it works. Until the howls begin. You don’t see the jungle coming. It arrives quietly—like fog, like silence before a storm. The rules shift. The wind smells different. And you start to notice... sheep go missing. The shepherd? Nowhere to be found. That’s when it hits you. This is no longer a pasture. It’s a jungle. And in the jungle, the predators don’t pounce—they play along. They laugh with you, talk like you, even bleed like you. But behind that smile is hunger. Behind those eyes, calculation. They don’t wear suits—they wear roles. Respected ones. Familiar ones. The kind that lull you into trust. Until you realize: you were dinner before you even knew it was dusk. By then, it’s too late. The jungle doesn’t hand out apologies. It feeds on innocence, and rewards the teeth that bite hardest. The sh...
