A few days ago, I was sitting in a cafe drinking coffee when I suddenly noticed a very distinctive pattern on the arm of a man next to me—a series of concentric circles spiraling inward, like a path that kept turning in circles, impossible to escape no matter which way you went. I asked him about it, and he said it was the symbol of the “labyrinth,” connected to the Minotaur from Greek mythology.
I was stunned. The Minotaur? That underground monster with a bull’s head? I’d heard the name as a child but never really looked into it. Why is it so famous? Why would someone get it tattooed? Why do so many books, movies, and games feature it?
With these questions in mind, I decided to investigate.
Searching online only made things more confusing
As soon as I got home, I fired up my computer and typed “What is the Minotaur?” into the search bar. A flood of information came pouring out, making my head spin. Some sources described it as a terrifying monster that devoured humans, while others claimed the story was really about power struggles within an ancient kingdom and family conflicts.
I clicked through page after page, like a hyperactive squirrel on too much caffeine, jumping between tabs. Gradually, I noticed nearly every version mentioned the same place: Crete. Its king, Minos, had built an incredibly complex underground labyrinth called the “Maze.” And the Minotaur was imprisoned deep within it.
Even stranger, this monster wasn’t some ordinary beast—it was born to the king’s wife. For reasons unknown, she had fallen in love with a bull, ultimately giving birth to this creature that was neither fully human nor fully beast. The king, ashamed, hid it away from sight.
By this point, I no longer saw this as just a “hero slays a monster” tale. Behind it all seemed to lie untold pain and secrets.
The Hero Arrives, But He Fights Not Alone
The protagonist was Theseus, a young Athenian. Every few years, Athens sent seven pairs of youths to Crete as “sacrifices” for the Minotaur—meaning they were devoured. Theseus couldn’t bear it. “I’ll go,” he declared. “I’ll slay it.”
But he didn’t charge in recklessly. He received crucial help: Ariadne, daughter of King Minos. She secretly fell in love with Theseus and gave him something—a ball of thread.
She instructed him: When entering the labyrinth, unwind the thread as you go. That way, after defeating the monster, he could follow the thread back out and avoid getting trapped.
Reading this, I suddenly felt incredibly clever. This wasn’t a fight; it was more like solving a puzzle. He didn’t win by strength, but by strategy. I sketched it on paper: a red thread stretching from the entrance to the very center, then winding back. It’s like what we call “navigation” today—only back then, there were no phones, just a ball of thread.
The Labyrinth Isn’t Just a Place; It’s Like Life’s Puzzles
What truly clicked for me was this: the “maze” wasn’t just a structure. It symbolized those things in life that make you go round and round, unable to find an exit.
For example:
- A super complicated form you spend ages filling out, only to make a mistake;
- A tangled relationship where you don’t know whether to hold on or let go;
- A work problem you’ve tried every solution for, with no luck.
These situations feel like navigating a maze. And that thread is like a small method we find—taking notes, asking friends, making lists—that gradually guides us out.
The story resonates because it portrays real people
What surprised me most was that this tale didn’t end like the childhood version I heard—“the good guy defeats the bad guy.” The truth is a bit uncomfortable.
Theseus successfully slayed the Minotaur, escaped using the thread, and even brought Ariadne with him. But later, he left her alone on an island and sailed away. Why? No one can say for sure. Maybe he forgot, maybe his heart changed. Either way, he broke his promise.
And what about the Minotaur? Was it truly “evil”? Imprisoned underground since birth, it never saw sunlight, learned no language, and heard only footsteps and cries. Its madness and roars might simply have stemmed from profound loneliness and agony.
Viewed this way, the tale ceases to be a simple “hero triumphs” narrative. Instead, it speaks to:
- The fears lurking within each of us, like that Minotaur;
- How courage alone isn’t enough to solve problems—strategy is needed too;
- How sometimes, in pursuit of success, we do things that betray others.
Why is this story still told today?
After much reflection, I finally understood:
Because it doesn’t recount ancient tales, but rather what we experience daily.
We all navigate our own “labyrinths”—exams, work, relationships. We all need our own “thread”—a plan, a reminder, someone willing to help us.
And that Minotaur? Perhaps it represents the emotions we dare not face: anger, inferiority, fear.
The true hero isn’t the one who slays it, but the one who learns to coexist with it, slowly emerging from the darkness.
Finally, I closed my laptop and noticed the washing machine was still spinning—the clothes had been soaking for three hours.
Ah, life is like a maze; there’s always something we forget.
But at least this time, I found the thread.
