A few days ago, I visited a large reptile pet shop.
Many people dislike insects and cold-blooded animals. I used to feel distant too. But after looking long enough, I realized—they’re actually beautiful.
Not because they changed, but because I finally chose to look.
Most fear is simply unfamiliarity.
Snakes rested quietly behind glass. Lizards’ skins formed intricate patterns. Spider legs looked like precise machinery.
They didn’t beg to be liked. They simply existed.
But then a question surfaced: Is taking wild creatures as pets really kindness?
Their care requires extreme precision— temperature, humidity, light, companionship. A single mistake means slow death.
And then I saw the freezer.
Rows of frozen white mice. Dead. Identical. Packed in plastic bags labeled XS, S, M, L, XL.
Five in a pack. Perfectly arranged.
Next to them— boxes of cockroaches, larvae, insects, bred solely to be eaten.
Lives born with one destiny.
To be consumed.
In that moment, everything went silent.
Not horror. Just sorrow.
In times of scarcity, eating to survive makes sense. But now, food hasn’t decreased— it’s been industrialized.
Cruelty, deception, and shortcuts grow alongside convenience.
No demand, no harm. But no demand also means no civilization.
Everything exists inside that contradiction.
And those at the top of the food chain— those who’ve tasted privilege— never want to come back down.
Standing before the glass, I couldn’t tell anymore: Was I a witness, or part of it all?
