Ah, civilization—this delicate, shimmering veil stretched thinly over the raw and untamed nature of humanity. We take it for granted, assuming it is a solid foundation beneath our feet. But in truth, it is a mirage—one that vanishes the moment the conditions shift.
Recently, I found myself in what I can only describe as a rehearsal for apocalypse. One moment, the world hummed along with its predictable rhythms; the next, everything stopped. No power. No water. No way to communicate. No information to explain what had happened or how long it would last.
I was alone, surrounded by silence, and cut off from the world as if I had been stranded on an island. The roads—those lifelines of civilization—were gone, blocked, erased from function. And in that void, something fascinating began to unfold.
At first, there was a kind of peace, a return to something ancient and pure. The distractions that normally consume us had evaporated, leaving behind only the present moment. There was joy in the simplicity—fire, water, shelter, the rhythm of the day dictated not by the artificial tick of a clock, but by the sun and the body’s own needs.
But as I observed others in this shared experience, I saw something else. Not everyone embraced the stillness. Fear, desperation, and survival instinct began to take root. They say you don’t truly know yourself until you are pushed to the edge. When the structure of the world crumbles, what remains is only the essence of who you are.
At first, people came together, shared what they had, and found comfort in community. It was like the moment after breaking a bone—the adrenaline dulling the pain, the mind refusing to accept the damage. “It’s going to be okay,” we whisper to ourselves. We bargain with fate for a reset button.
But then the shock wears off. The pain sets in. And a different part of the mind awakens.
Survival.
It is one thing to be civilized when civilization is convenient. When food arrives on shelves, water flows from faucets, and the social contract is enforced by the presence of law. But take these away, and something primal stirs. At first, there is unease. Then desperation. Around the ten-day mark, people start to turn. By the twentieth, they begin hiding, plotting. And by thirty days, the illusion of order collapses entirely.
Clans form. Alliances are made. The rules are rewritten.
Those who once sat at the top of society, the architects of finance, industry, and abstraction, suddenly find themselves powerless. For their knowledge has no currency in a world where the only value is in what can be eaten, built, or defended. The new aristocracy is made up of those who understand the land, those who have resources, and those who know how to survive.
And so the great truth reveals itself: we are only as civilized as our circumstances allow. We wear our social masks because they benefit us, because they make life easier. But scratch the surface, remove the comforts, and beneath it, the wildness still lives.
It has always been there, waiting.
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