“Are We All Just Geckos in a Bigger Cage?”
The other night, as I was watching Neo, the kids’ gecko, I couldn’t help but marvel at his simple life. There he was, in his enclosure, with his bright, clear eyes staring out at the world—or maybe just at me. His little world is predictable: rocks, plants, a cozy cave, and a steady cricket delivery service. He has no real worries, no predators, and no existential crises. He just exists. Sleep, eat, bask, repeat.
But it got me thinking: What does Neo make of his existence? Does he even think about it at all? Human life is driven by instinct, societal frameworks, and routines. We go through the motions—work, eat, sleep, repeat—without questioning the “whys” until we hit some arbitrary point in life when we suddenly feel the need to ask. Am I, like Neo, caught in my own repetitive cycle, rearranging the rocks in my enclosure without ever really questioning what’s beyond the glass?
In existentialism, we talk about choice and personal responsibility. At least I can choose to question. Neo doesn’t have that luxury. He can’t decide to move to a new cave or find a gecko buddy to hang out with. He’s kind of stuck where he is. But at least as humans, we can change our environment, seek out others, or even—if we’re feeling particularly brave—break the routine altogether.
Then a thought hit me: What if I have a giant owner? What if there’s some entity looking in on me, watching me in my enclosure, wondering why I do the things I do? Does it question why I never try to escape? What does it think when it sees me, trapped in my daily grind, just like Neo?
This led me down a slippery slope of existential questions. Is the search for meaning amidst life’s absurdity even worth it? Or would it be simpler, more freeing, to just live like Neo? Enjoy the enclosure, take in the comforts, eat, drink, sleep, and wait for the inevitable end. After all, isn’t that what Albert Camus talked about in absurdism? He said that life boils down to one choice: to live or not. That’s all we get. Neo doesn’t even have that option—he just exists, no questions asked.
But here’s where the discomfort creeps in: I’m not Neo. I can ask questions. I can change my surroundings. And that gnawing need for something more—the desire to find meaning amidst the chaos and absurdity of life—is uniquely human. It’s what makes us poke our heads out of our own caves, even if only to retreat back in after a while.
So, are we all just geckos in a bigger cage? Maybe. But even if we are, we’re geckos with the capacity to wonder, to rearrange our enclosures, and maybe—just maybe—find something beyond the glass. And if not? Well, at least we have crickets.