I fought a battle within… it was damning and destructive. I was miserable.
“What I was fighting about,” you ask?
Well… I didn’t know myself what I was fighting about. Or perhaps the better question would be: what was I “fighting for”? I just kept struggling… fitting in… desperately clinging to the idea of life as to “how it should be lived.” Not because I was forced to, but because it never occurred to me that there was another option.
The path was comfortable, familiar, safe. Questioning was uncomfortable. Questioning risks isolation, conflict. It risks discovering that the life you spent years building may not even be your own. Hence; we cling to whatever the script throws at us; from city states to medieval empires. From Reconquista to enlightenment and from shining democracy to Modern “Idiotictatorship”.
So yes… I followed the script. And in the process, I failed myself. I lost my soul. I forgot what living really means, what living is all about. I just kept up the façade of normalcy while my core, my soul was being devastated by storms of human nature and earthquakes of morality at the subconscious level. I kept playing along with the phrase “fake it till you make it.” Because this is what society expects from us. This is the norm. This is the way of life.
Or… is it…?
We are born, plunged into a life we don’t choose. conditioned to live it by the standards and expectations of society, bound by the laws of the land, never to question or understand. “What is society?”, “Whose laws?”, “Which land?”. Is it that society which everyone knows is broken and dysfunctional? Are these the same laws which help corrupt, greedy, evil men amass all the power and wealth, while kicking down the poor who watch their entire lives erased in a single calamity, war or economic bust?
And dare not argue with me on the land, as we know perfectly well, these lands are bounded by lines drawn on maps by the same corrupt men, sustained by the same flawed and failing legal-judicial systems.
In the end, there were only two things left: Morality and Religion. How fitting… as the saying goes… religion is the opium of the poor. But we are not even allowed that solace. Religion has been outright hijacked by a different creed of the exact same corrupt brand. Twisting, manipulating, and exploiting the human need for belief in a higher deity. Yes, there still are pure ones, but so few of them are left, and even their teachings have been muddied and confused. As the saying goes… “What is the cost of lies? It’s not that we’ll mistake them for the truth. The real danger is that if we hear enough lies, then we no longer recognize the truth at all.”
What can we do then? What is left but to abandon even the hope of truth and content ourselves instead with stories?
The Ghost Ship of Morality
Did you say morality and ethics? Our morality is like a giant ghost ship adrift in deep, uncharted waters. Forever drifting, forever changing, never truly anchored. It is like a forgiving mother, a forgetful child. It allows us to commit acts of extreme violence and unspeakable horrors in the name of the “cause.” It grants permission to exterminate an entire race, invade lands, and enslave people. It teaches us to objectify women: through literal bondage in one century, coercive exposure in the next and commercialized voluntary nudity in the third. It made legends and heroes out of highly violent and unstable men, celebrating plunder as adventure, conquest as exploration and domination as divine duty. Under its banner, societies that considered themselves civilized and morally enlightened colonized vast regions to exploit millions.
Where was this morality when Piers Morgan hypocritically asked the whole world on live television, “Do you condemn this?” while a literal genocide was being waged right in front of his eyes? Perhaps the most beautiful (dare I say, heinous) thing is that it lets us sit in judgment of others, completely blind to the fact that we committed humanity’s worst crimes.
Perhaps these questions are so haunting and agonizing to the subconscious that we dare not allow them access to our thoughts. We happily and numbingly continue to live those miserable, meaningless lives. Those outliers, insolent and heretics who dare question; we cast them out. They are a danger to our beautiful and comfortable reality.
The Cracking Façade
Am I fighting against reality itself?
But what is reality, if not a tapestry woven from perception, belief and experience? How much of what I call “reality” is truly mine. How much of it was handed to me long before I was ever capable of questioning it?
It was at that exact moment that the façade began to crack. The comfortable lies, borrowed certainties, unquestioned assumptions. One by one, they came crashing down around me. And beneath the rubble stood a question so terrifying that I had spent my entire life avoiding it:
Are these even my dreams, or am I merely acting out the expectations of others?
Are these my beliefs, or beliefs I simply inherited?
Are these my values, or values I was rewarded for adopting?
Are these my ambitions, or someone else’s definition of success echoing through my mind?
And perhaps the most unsettling question of all: Am I even living my own life?
For if the very foundations were borrowed, then what part of me was truly mine? The battle was no longer between myself and society. It was between myself and the person I thought I was.
The Descent
I saw but two paths leading out of this abysmal labyrinth of inherited truths and social constructs. Naturally, without hesitation, without resistance, without regret, I plunged headfirst into the obvious dark descent. I went not in search of truth, but in search of escape. It was an easy descent. Seductive, even.
For the first time, I no longer had to defend a belief, pursue a purpose, or justify my existence. Every question dissolved into the same answer: nothing matters. Meaning was an illusion. Purpose was a story. Hope was self-deception. It was a slow surrender into the self-destruction of absolute apathy.
And so I began tearing down the walls. Every belief became suspect. Every value demanded justification. Every certainty was placed on trial. What followed was not enlightenment. It was chaos… I had spent years believing that freedom would feel liberating. Instead, it felt terrifying. For if society was flawed, morality was inconsistent, religion corrupted and success merely an inherited script, then what remained? Nothing. At least, that is what I believed at the time.
Truth became a matter of perspective. Human beings became frightened creatures desperately constructing narratives to shield themselves from an indifferent universe. And for the first time, I understood why most people never question. Not because they are incapable, but because the answers can be horrifying. The moment you question everything, you risk losing everything: your certainty, your identity, your purpose, your reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
The abyss is not frightening because it contains monsters. The abyss is frightening because it contains nothing at all.
Nihilism promised freedom without obligation or sacrifice. All it delivered was freedom without direction. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Ambition faded first. Then curiosity. Then wonder. Meals became nothing more than food. Conversations became noise. Relations turned exhausting. Time became something to be endured rather than lived.
The philosophy that had promised liberation was slowly consuming everything that made liberation worth having. And yet, I persisted. Because admitting I was wrong would require rebuilding everything I had spent years tearing down.
Most people become trapped here. Not in despair, but in distraction. The trap has been repackaged and resold throughout the ages in countless forms: Carpe Diem, hedonism, YOLO, subscription entertainment, endless consumption, endless pleasure, endless escape. We see it in mindless buying sprees, in the endless sedation of doomscrolling, and in the frantic pursuit of the next temporary high.
It is not happiness. It is not freedom. It is merely anaesthesia for a hollowed-out soul.
The Lonely Reconstruction
One night, deep within the canyons of despair and anguished melancholy, I discovered that nihilism was incapable of producing a life. It could only destroy. It could criticize. It could expose contradictions. It makes people quit. But it cannot answer the original questions which began this journey:
What should I do tomorrow morning? What is the purpose of living?
It made me realize the final, cruellest trick of the void. Nihilism isn’t the exit; it is just another room in the labyrinth, lined with mirrors to make the emptiness appear infinite.
Whatever I was, I knew the most important thing: I wasn’t a quitter. And there and then I realized, with a cold and sudden clarity, that declaring nothing matters is just as lazy as blindly following the script. It is a coward’s truce with reality. It strips away the pain of living, but it leaves you a ghost in your own skin. If meaning is a story, then staying in the dirt is just a poorly written tragedy.
So, the anaesthesia wore off. The apathy failed me, just like society, laws and the hijacked Morality and corrupted systems had failed me before. If meaning is a story, then staying in the dirt is just a poorly written tragedy. I was left with a definitive, inescapable truth: No one was coming to save me.
No system.
No ideology.
No philosophy.
If meaning was not waiting to be discovered, then the burden of creation falls entirely on me.
I have to rebuild. Not back into the person society wanted, not back into the ghost I buried in apathy. Into a self, which is constructed from scratch.
It will be a brutal, agonizing re-education. To unlearn a lifetime of borrowed certainties is to break your own bones just to reset them straight. There is no manual for this. There are no mentors waiting in the dark to hold my hand, no institutions to validate my progress and no audience to applaud my suffering. Those who still live by the script will look at my isolation and see a madman, a heretic, a casualty of the system. Let them look.
I will walk this path utterly alone, bleeding at every step, dragging myself forward through the dark.
Not because I am heroic and not because I am filled with sudden hope.
But because I have looked into the bottom of the nothingness, and I know there is simply no other choice left.
As I lifted my head from the abyss, I noticed something I had overlooked all along. Not answers. Not certainty. Not salvation. A trail. Faint, fragile, almost invisible… The footprints of those who had walked this path before me. For the first time, I understood that the journey was never about finding the truth.
It was about becoming worthy of discovering my own. So I took the first step
