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When you change everything to attain certain goals in life. Goals that are elusive, not straightforward, like absolute financial freedom. Goals that are unknown, like unraveling the truth of all humanity—whether such a truth can even be pursued. Questioning everything in your life: your origins, your beliefs, your habits, your ways of doing things, your ways of managing desires. When you change everything…

When you stand alone, when there is no one to guide you, no one to tell you what to do. When you are lost in pursuit, trying to find a way where no known way exists, questioning whether such a way could exist.

When there is no familiar face, no person from your past—whether family or anyone you ever knew. When you shed even what you thought was yourself. Not understanding what you are, what forces are at work—your senses, your body with its inclinations, emotions that arise on their own. Where you do not even know what you’re feeling, not according to any explanation given by a book or by another.

When you stand completely alone. When habits are at work, when emotions speak for themselves. When you act automatically, either subconsciously or consciously.

When there is only you. Like during this night. Alone in the whole world. There is no one who can help you discover any truth, for words heard and repeated are just repetition, not realizations of your own—until you make them, somehow, in some way.

Is it this the so called valley of despair? Does one hold on, go to sleep if one can, when there is only you? And the paradox of living itself: the individual always dies. The only thing that lives on is the species itself. You reproduce, pass on your genes, and so it goes for generations, for thousands of years, for millions of years in the past, since humanity was just a simple organism, akin to bacteria. Who knows how many, many years ago.

The author, if I may add something personal—if you allow—was on a trip to Cork. His eyes saw the cliffs, the enormity of them, standing at the edge and looking down, knowing that with a push of the wind or a misstep in balance, one would simply fall. The author was very careful not to fall, for one does not fancy dying from such a simple mistake. However, the author reflected on the reality: if one were to fall, everything would come to an end. Every problem, every striving, all goals and ambitions, all pursuits. It is going to happen eventually. Every human being, every body gets old and eventually dies. It’s not something any man has ever figured out—whether it is even possible to exist forever. The author might not die falling from a cliff, but old age or any other of the known diseases in human history will eventually end his life.

Not to be misunderstood, one is merely reflecting on the moment of this night—like many others—of silence. Observing the life one has created in the pursuit of things. In a room of machinery and material objects, which are always indifferent to our existence. The table one sits by, the mechanical keyboard one types on, are things that are not aware of any existence. The rock on the street never even knows, nor could it possibly know, that there are beings like humans walking on this earth. The sun is not aware of them either. Nor is space.

The author does not believe in any religion, in any deity that observes human beings. In his humble opinion—and it is just his opinion, it does not have to be yours—we are alone in this world, only surrounded by other living creatures, like those we have named dogs or cats. But one even wonders whether the trees themselves know, in their own perception of the world, that human beings exist.

And in this loneliness, which one has created around himself, the body looks for comfort, for pleasures, for anything to soothe itself. Some turn to alcohol, some to enthralling themselves in the digital world. But one can see the destructive nature of such methods, and one is not blind enough to indulge in them. And in that moment, the body and the mind are left without any of those ways, existing in emptiness.

Hard are these times, as one does not know what to do. No one is there to tell you. So one writes down these words—one of the sane things one can do.

The author might one day look back at these words, perhaps out of curiosity. But the one who exists now is just here, without the perspective of the future.

Let it be. In those moments, thoughts of hope appear—that it is all leading to something. For now, however, one lives in the unknown.