On a grimly chilly night, a pair of eyes glowed in the dark, fast and heavy breath echoed in the air, the stomach of a being churned with unbearable hunger, it galloped in the woods, searching for food, dawn was upon it and exhaustion was not far away too. It’s muscles cramped and head felt dizzy, and just at the brink of exhaustion the big bad wolf jumped into a flock of sheep, hunting the food running in front of it. Time, the poor animals had very less. Through their bleats they begged for mercy, but the big bad wolf knew not the meaning of that word. And just when it’s wrath was upon the poor ones, through the dawning sun emerged the Shepard, the saviour, the hero and shot the big bad wolf. The wolf who was hungry from seven days past was happy that it had been put out of its misery, but wished it could’ve lived longer, for he dearly loved his mother, the nature.
Such is the comic tragedy of human life. We are the ultimate species and try to be the heroes in all the stories, even in the primal stories of nature. Had the imaginary Shepard of the imaginary story let the imaginary wolf live, a big tragedy wouldn’t have occurred. And the wolf would’ve done what it’s mother, the primordial nature of life, was telling him to do, survive. It is our tendency to humanise every thing around us, “Be the hero”, make the wolf the “villain”, the sheep the “victims”. Nature doesn’t give roles to its subjects, it’s us humans who do that. The wolf was trying to hunt for its stomach not for its pleasure. Any animal, except the human kind will only kill for hunger and survival, never pleasure or sport, the wolf only hunts when it is hungry, the rest of the time it sleeps, there are no villains in nature of animals, they are only present in the cultures of humans.
It’s funny how we were the only species to develop a conscience, our ultimate weapon, the one which gives us the power to reason, the power to look for the ultimate answer for the ultimate question, but giving us this, our conscience also made us part with our true mother, the primordial nature, for conscience is something she doesn’t breed nor pamper.