Legacy

This morning, I watched a video about what is now called The Indoor Generation—a generation that has everything at their fingertips, neatly packaged within the comfort of their own home. And yet, the more I thought about it, the more unsettling it became. Look around. Concrete walls rise higher with every passing year, apartment buildings stretching towards the sky, enclosing us in artificial caves. Parks are fenced off, their gates locked as if nature itself has become something to fear. Technology has evolved not to set us free, but to keep us inside—offering movies, concerts, virtual vacations, and curated glimpses of lives that aren’t ours. We scroll endlessly, consuming moments instead of living them, watching others experience the world while we remain tethered to screens. As my grandmother used to say, we no longer need to travel to smell the roses. Because why step outside when we can simulate life from the safety of our own walls? We breathe in artificial air, regulate our comfort with the push of a button, and build cocoons of convenience. Bit by bit, we retreat, crafting a reality where the world beyond our door is something to be avoided rather than embraced. We tell ourselves it’s because the world is unsafe. But was it ever safe? Hasn’t danger always lurked in the shadows? The difference now is that we have magnified it—fed by sensationalist headlines, true crime obsessions, and an unrelenting stream of fear-driven narratives. So we escape. We escape indoors. And in doing so, we imprison ourselves. On my way home from a recent trip, I saw a prison transport truck—hands gripping the steel bars, faces shadowed behind a cage. It wasn’t fear I felt as I looked at them, but something deeper, something heavier. Sadness. Sadness, because I wondered: When will they see the light of day? When will they taste freedom again? And then a more disturbing thought struck me. How different are they from us? Inmates create their own societies within their confined quarters, finding solace in small luxuries, living by rules dictated by fear, by survival. They exist in an extension of the cave they had already built before they were ever locked up—trapped in cycles of fear, shaping comfort within captivity. And aren’t we doing the same? We keep our children inside, warning them of the dangers beyond the walls. We keep our pets confined, allowing them only measured doses of the outdoors. We teach ourselves to fear the world, to see the unknown as a threat rather than a possibility. I know fear. I have lived in some of the safest places on earth and still experienced crime, racism, and cruelty—once even in a country considered one of the most refined and sophisticated in Europe. Life is unpredictable. People are unpredictable. But I would never trade the risk of living for the illusion of safety. The rush of fresh air after a storm. The scent of rain on the pavement. The laughter shared over coffee, the warmth of a friend’s gaze as they speak. The electric thrill of standing before an endless ocean, of hiking to the peak of a mountain and feeling, just for a moment, like you can touch the sky. This is life. Not a simulation. Not a curated feed. Not a world observed from behind a pane of glass. So open your window. Step outside. Feel the wind against your skin and the earth beneath your feet. Because freedom is not just about the absence of walls—it’s about the courage to walk beyond them.