Allegory of the cave; A first person perspective and modern (crypto) reference

Here is my take on a first person perspective of Plato's 'Allegory of the cave'. For reference, in case you haven't read Republic, here is a picture of the layout of Plato's cave;

I like to think that the ideals of this philosophical text are directly related not only to education, but the crypto community also. In Plato's original text, the allegory is referencing the manipulated minds of society and how we refuse to accept truths, preferring to grasp what is familiar rather than what is reality. In a sense, this can be depicted as people who solely rely on fiat currency and refuse to accept crypto-currency as the future of monetary value. Nevertheless, here is my first person perspective of Plato's literature. If you haven't read the original I would highly recommend it, it is a very insightful piece. I added a quote at the end since it seemed relevant ;)

The envisagement of beginnings, and that of ends is much the same. One could say that darkness is a mutual standpoint between life and death. And this beginning, this life, is not an exception. This life starts as any other life, it starts with sensation, with air meeting supple flesh for the first time. It starts with shrill cries and confusion. It starts with darkness. But this life is not just any other life. There is darkness and hardness and coldness, there is no living.
A life grows with the time. The time that smells of cold and dark is changing shape. The time is familiar and the time is home.
Nought but a wall stares back. A head that cannot move, that is restricted, and yet it knows no movement. Legs that cannot walk, that don’t know how to walk and useless arms that slump from bony frames. They are not needed. The eyes and the ears, the nose and the mouth is enough to survive, it is enough for life.
Sometimes the walls talk. The sound seems to bounce upon every inch of the ear canal, a too loud sound that is not loud enough. It is meaningless, simply white noise that is frustratingly comforting. It is the noise of the gods.
The walls that talk, can also dance. The darkness dances and speaks and makes shapes with its body. And we give the shapes names, so as to identify them. A long shape with arms we call a ‘tree’. A square shape we call ‘book’, and a shape with many legs we call ‘dog’. The shapes speak to us, they teach us what is right and what is wrong, they teach us to live.
Time and life move together, constantly fighting but never leaving the other behind. They do not exist without one or the other, they are a pair.
The calmness that accompanies familiarity is a blessing. The walls do not move, only the darkness which dances upon its willing surface. The walls are familiar, the shapes are familiar, and the sound is familiar. This is the life that is known, and none else is needed or desired. But a life is not truly living.
The life is untimely ripped from the grasp of familiarity and thrust into the unknown, the undesired. A wall that talked and sang and danced is not living at all. A violent shape that holds pigment and texture and depth is moving like no other shape could. They call it fire. The familiar shapes on the wall mimic unfamiliar shapes that have eyes and ears and mouths and noses. The unfamiliar shapes produce noise, the noise of the gods. But they are not gods. They are the same as this life.
The scene that has been set for this life is a dark encampment which only the light of fire can touch. This life is the embodiment of lies and deceit. This life does not know how to live. The puppeteers, as this life has declared them, mould the dark shapes against their will. Their bodies move as this life never has, and they make trees and books and dogs. They make reality, the living.
The life is horrified as reality crushes all that was known and desired. Consent was not given. The life wants to flee. The reality is unwanted, it is hated. This life wishes to return to the sweet, innocuous realm of ignorance. Instead, further torment ensues.
The life’s realm, the imaginary bliss, is named a ‘cave’. The passage from security and serenity opens to blindingly immense shapes. One from above that could truly be named God, is overwhelmingly powerful. The life ought but shiver under the rule of true purity and realness. That which far outweighs the magnitude of any imagination. For once, there is no hardness and coldness and darkness, only light and warmth and a gentle touch. But it is too much.
The life desperately releases itself from the grasp of its perpetrator. It staggers down a narrow path, away from the metaphysical holiness, and delves into darkness once more. It descends past the roaring flame and the barbarous puppeteers. It doesn’t cease its descent until it has reached rock bottom. There is nowhere else to run. All that is left is large sparse of dark wall with shapes dancing in every corner. This is all the life needs, all the life wants. The hardness, coldness, darkness of descent is a comfort that the life indulges. The life stays, gazing upon the wall and rejecting the falsehood of reality from its mind. The life never questions, never leaves, ever again.

“facilis descensus Averno;
noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;
sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,
hoc opus, hic labor est.” – Vergil, Aeneid