What does it mean to exist?  For as long as I can remember, I have been haunted by the questions: What does it  mean to exist? Why am I here? What is life, and what am I within it? I’ve analyzed these  questions with relentless rigor, only to find my efforts circling back to nothingness.  Everywhere I searched, I found no grand revelation, only an aching void. As Nietzsche wrote,  " And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you " (Beyond Good and Evil  146). The universe, it seemed, was an accident, and consciousness—this strange ability to  question our own being—a misstep in nature’s evolution.   We might attempt a simple explanation to answer those questions by “I exist because  my parents gave birth to me.” Yet this response merely defers the question rather than  answering it. Why do your parents exist? Because your grandparents did—and so the cycle  continues. Press the question further, and we arrive at a chain of regress that ultimately lands  at the Big Bang, where we might say, “Existence began.” But even then, when we ask why  existence began, we find ourselves circling back to square one. Suppose, then, I claim I exist  to give life to my future children. We’ve merely redirected the dilemma forward, toward the  future and, inevitably, toward nothingness. The inquiry still terminates in silence. And  perhaps that is the heart of the matter: the past offers no final meaning, and the future no  definitive resolution, for both dissolve into eventual endings.  The essay begins with a single inquiry: What if meaning is not something found in  origin or destination, but something woven from the experience of being itself? Can we live as if life matters, even when certainty escapes us? The Flaw in Pursuit for Meaning  At first, this realization was crushing. If existence itself had no intrinsic meaning, then  what point was there to live , to love , to effort ? Was I merely a mistake, lost between the twin  abysses of creation and oblivion? I swam through my own thoughts as through a starless sea,  searching, doubting, raging against the silence of the cosmos. The more I sought answers  from the past and the future, the more the void deepened.  I had exhausted every rational road, peeled apart every philosophical framework I  could grasp. Meaning hid from me in both past and future, and my pursuit left me hollow.  Yet, perhaps it is as Heidegger implied: being is not simply to think , but to be-in-the-world (cp.3). And it was then, in the silence left by that collapse, that a new awareness bloomed.  The Moment of Awakening  Like a lightning strike across a dark sky, I realized that I am experiencing. Not merely  thinking, not merely surviving—but feeling, listening, being . The rain no longer merely fell  against my skin; I heard its whispers, I felt its song. Beyond the binary of meaning and  meaninglessness, I discovered the profound richness of experience itself .  How could such realization arise? It did not come from argument, but from  immersion. It came not from solving the question, but from surrendering to the moment. As  Merleau-Ponty suggested, perception itself is a form of being. The world discloses itself not  through logic, but through embodied openness (58).  Thinking Is Not Enough   Yet even this discovery raised new doubts. If all is fleeting, what is the value of  experiencing in a world destined to crumble into dust? Our search for meaning often leads us  astray because we demand answers from places that cannot answer us: from the dead past,  from the unborn future, from abstractions too vast for a single mind to grasp. We seek a  finality that existence, by its very nature, cannot provide.  René Descartes famously declared, " Cogito, ergo sum "—" I think, therefore I am "  (13). Our existence is affirmed by our consciousness, our ability to question, to reflect, to  feel. But what Descartes hints at—and what I came to understand—is that being is not simply  about thinking. It is about weaving : weaving our moments of joy and sorrow, weaving our  hopes and despairs into the vast, intricate tapestry of immediate existence.  How to Answer the Void  Imagine each moment of experience as a thread, each emotion a color, each  connection with others a knot tying lives together. Our lives are not isolated strands, but part  of an immense, living fabric—one we can neither fully see nor fully comprehend. And  though individual threads may fray or fade, the patterns they create endure. Even after death,  the influence of a life—its loves, its creations, its kindnesses and cruelties—persists, woven  into the lives of others, into culture, into memory, into the ongoing story of being.  Søren Kierkegaard once argued that truth is subjective: what matters most is not  objective certainty, but the passionate commitment to live authentically within  uncertainty ( Concluding Unscientific Postscript ch.2). This idea bolstered my growing  intuition: that even if the universe offers no fixed meaning, it is still up to me to live as if  meaning matters. The act of living with sincerity and courage, even amid doubt, is itself an  answer to the void.  Why the Far Future Does Not Matter  It is tempting to despair when we realize that in a million years, no one may  remember our names. But why should a million years matter more than the now? If my  presence is irrelevant to the far future, then likewise the far future is irrelevant to me.  Meaning is not found in endurance across infinite time; it is found in presence and  experience .  Albert Camus, reflecting on the myth of Sisyphus, famously declared that we must  imagine Sisyphus happy —that is, finding joy not in escaping futility, but in embracing it  (55). Sisyphus's eternal labor is not a defeat but a triumph, precisely because he asserts his  humanity against an absurd universe. Likewise, the act of weaving meaning into our lives— knowing it may not "last"—is an act of rebellion. Moments Are Eternal  We often think linearly—birth, life, death—a beginning, a middle, an end. But life is  not a line; it is a symphony of moments, each complete in itself. Moments are not endless, but  they are eternal in their own way, unmeasurable, unrepeatable, uniquely ours, something that  even the void couldn’t take from us.  Even if existence is an accident, even if the universe is indifferent, we are not . We  care , we feel , we weave . And that act of caring, of weaving experience into meaning, is itself  the answer we seek.  Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence precedes essence: we are not born with a  preordained purpose; instead, we create our essence through our actions (20). At first, this  realization feels like a heavy burden—the so-called " condemn to be free " (cp.1). But it is also  liberating: if no one else defines my meaning, then I have the infinite responsibility, and the  infinite possibility, to weave my own tapestry.  Faith as the Missing Ingredient  But to truly live this truth, one final ingredient is needed—an ingredient many  philosophers overlook: faith. Kierkegaard on his work Fear and Trembling described the “ leap of faith ” —the courageous and subjective decision to commit fully to meaning and  value, not for reason able to assures us of their certainty, but precisely because it cannot. The  leap itself is not blind, but bold. It acknowledges the absurdity and ambiguity of existence,  yet affirms life in spite of them. Only faith can do that: faith that our weaving matters, faith  that presence is precious, faith that love, beauty, kindness, and creation are worthwhile even  if the void is certain.  Without this faith, we risk falling into what Nietzsche called "passive nihilism"—a  resignation to meaninglessness that drains life of its vitality ( Will to Power 21). But with it,  we resist the abyss. With it, we create.  Consider Viktor Frankl, the psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, who insisted that  meaning is not something we invent arbitrarily, but something we discover through  commitment, love,suffering, and action (75). Frankl's words taught me that even in the most  horrifying conditions imaginable, life retains the possibility of meaning. That meaning is not  handed to us; it is forged.  Toward the Eternal  Thus, existence is not meaningless—it is meaning itself, unfolding. We are not  mistakes; we are the weavers of the universe’s own self-portrait.  When I walk through a crowded street, or hear a song sung by someone long dead, or  see the smile of a friend, I realize I am witnessing the tapestry in motion. The strings of  countless lives, woven together, forming culture, language, art, history—and me, a living part  of it.  Even if one day I am forgotten, I have lived. I have weaved my colors into the grand  tapestry. And—that alone— is enough .

Existence and the Individual: What does it mean for an individual to exist, and how does individual existence relate to the broader fabric of being? Consider different philosophical perspectives on subjectivity, consciousness, and our place in the universe. In and out– in and out–  breathe,  in, and out.  I cannot feel the splinters penetrating the epidermis of my skin, nor the weight of the large wooden shovel I'm carrying. I do not know what city I am in, nor whether the sun has risen or fallen. I only feel the weight of guilt on my shoulders, and my body slowly giving out. I keep going, though. I have to keep going.  “Dig!” A voice in me shouts. Digging has become far too familiar in my routine. I have to continue to dig a grave for my brothers and sisters that have fallen, to dig for the sense of humanity that has disappeared for far too long, to dig– to find my sanity.  January 28th 1943  I wake up in a mysterious room, filled with a mixture of bright and blue tulips. I've never seen it before, yet it sparks an emotion in myself— nostalgia.  The room is impossibly quiet. No screaming. No cries. The silence is honestly deafening. As I rise to my feet, though I don't quite remember lying down, the air tastes like static, sharp and sterile. Too sterile. My hands are clean. Too clean. To my surprise there is no cold. No watchtower. No screaming kapo. Only tulips. A sea of them. They stretch past the corners of the room, to unimaginable lengths, swaying gently despite the still air.  A voice behind me murmurs:  “You remembered.”  I'm careful with my footwork as I shift my gaze. No one is there. Only a mirror. Cracked and old. Yet when I look into it, I do not see myself. I see a child. My younger brother. His eyes are bright — his mouth is covered in soot. He is mouthing something. Leaning in, he whispers: “Don’t forget us. ”And then he vanishes, like smoke blown through broken glass.  The tulips begin to decay. One by one, their colors darken — red bleeding into black, blue fading into ash-grey. The room seems to pulse. I blink, and the shovel is in my hands again. But this is no longer dirt I dig into. It's “memory.” Soft, wet, and deep. Every stroke of the shovel brings up pieces: a burnt doll, a photograph torn in half, a boot with no foot in it. A violin string. A broken pair of glasses.  Then, a voice. A man. Not quite real, yet more alive than I’ve felt in years. “Why did you leave me in the fire?” he asks. I drop the shovel. My throat tightens. “I tried. I—I tried to go back. They had guns. They had no mercy. They—”  “They burned me,” he says calmly, cutting off my stutter.  “But you’re the one who buried me.”  A silence follows, heavier than earth.  Then–  “Dig. Not for graves — for names.”  I look down. My shovel is no longer a shovel. It’s a quill. And the ground is a scroll, endless and white. The tulips suddenly begin to bloom.  The scroll stretches infinitely beneath my feet. A vast plain of white parchment. The tulips sway gently at the edges of this new terrain, but I sense they do not belong here. Not anymore. They are memories dressed as flowers — illusions given form by my aching mind.  I kneel down. The quill trembles in my hand like a living thing. I do not know what I am supposed to write. There are no words grand enough for what I have seen, what I have done. But the silence demands I try.  So I begin with a name:  Eliezer.  My best friend in the Vilna Ghetto. We stole bread together, we laughed in hushed whispers after curfew. He died in a cattle car, crushed between bodies that once sang lullabies to children.  The ink bleeds slowly onto the scroll. As it does, a figure rises from the parchment — not flesh, not shadow, but presence. He doesn’t look at me. He looks up, at something beyond the blank sky.  Then he fades.  Another name:  Miriam . She was six. Her mother hid her in the stove when the soldiers came. I never saw either of them again. More ink. More presence. More silence. I keep writing. And as I do, I begin to wonder:  Is this existence?  Is this what it means to be — to be remembered?  To be named, to be mourned, to be drawn back into the fabric of consciousness through memory and grief?  A voice answers, though no mouth softly speaks: “To be forgotten is to die twice.” I pause. “But were they ever real,” I whisper, “if they only exist now in my mind?” And that’s when the sky cracks.  A single fracture — like shattered glass. A line that splits the heavens.  From the crack drips sound. Distant, echoing voices. Debates. Whispers. Philosophers speaking through time:  “Cogito, ergo sum,” says Descartes.  “You are thought — not body.” “You are a sensation,” says Husserl.  “You are an experience — but only yours.”   “You are meat,” says the Materialist. “A nervous system tricked by patterns.” “You are spark,” says the Dualist.  “A soul, eternal, wearing a mask of flesh.”  “You are all,” says the Panpsychist.  “Even the tulip feels.”  And then, louder — a child’s voice:  “If I feel sadness… does that mean I exist?”  I fell to my knees. My own voice is a whisper now: “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”  Around me, the names I’ve written begin to glow. They rise — not as people, but as stars. Tiny suns of memory and grief. Each one a self, a story. Each one individual — yet now part of a vast constellation beyond me.  And I understand something, briefly, painfully:  Perhaps the individual is a ripple in the ocean of “Being.”  Not separate, not permanent — but meaningful only because it moves.  And perhaps to exist… is not simply to breathe or think — but to be witnessed, to be mourned, to be loved. The sky fractures again. A blinding light pours through. I shield my eyes. And then I hear my brother’s voice, the one I thought was lost in Treblinka: “Keep writing. We only vanish when you stop.”  Eli and I walk across a field where flowers breathe and silence speaks. Each step leaves no footprint, yet the world shifts with our passing.  This place, I begin to understand, is not punishment. It is not salvation either. It is the residue of being.  A space where consciousness clings to the edge of nonexistence, flickering like flame on soaked wood — not enough to burn, too stubborn to die.  I fall to my knees beside a boy with a violin for a spine.  “Why me?” I ask.  Eli kneels with me. “Because you remembered.”  That word — remembered — unspools something in me.  All this time, I thought my body was the anchor to the world. But maybe it was the remembering that kept me alive. Maybe existence is not about flesh — but about witness.  To exist, then, is not merely to breathe or to think.  It is to carry.  To bear unbearable truths and still find space for a single fragile tulip to grow in your ribcage.  We reach a clearing.  There’s a mirror made of pooled water — still, silver, ancient. Eli gestures. I carefully look in  I do not see myself.  I see thousands. A kaleidoscope of eyes and bone and breath — survivors, victims, fighters, mothers, strangers. Some wear stars on their chests. Others hold books, shovels, violins, fists. They shimmer in and out, like waves in a sea of memory. I realize:  I was never just one.  I was the many — glimpsed through the keyhole of a single life.  We are all fragments braided together in the same infinite tapestry — our thoughts, our aches, our joys humming in one great, trembling chord.  And maybe that is the cruel and beautiful paradox:  The individual exists only as part of everything else.  A heartbeat that echoes in the canyon of all beings.  A single cry that becomes a chorus.  The mirror ripples. The flowers dim.  A voice softens: “You’ve given enough shape to the forgotten. You can rest.” I close my eyes, resting. My breath is soft, yet heavy.  In and out– in and out–  breathe,  in, and out. .

The default state of existence is non-existence. What we call existence isn’t a rest state. Existence is a product of action. Before the Big Bang, there was no space, no time, no matter—no framework within which “existence” could even be said to exist. Then something happened. An event. An action. And from that singular action came everything. This idea isn't just scientific; it’s deeply philosophical. In Taoism, it is said that the Tao is not a thing but a process—an ever-flowing motion. Laozi wrote that the nameless is the origin of heaven and earth; naming (an act) gives rise to the myriad things. Existence, then, is inseparable from action. In a different tradition, Heidegger argued that Being isn’t a static state; it is something revealed through Dasein, the unique human capacity to engage with and care about the world. In his terms, to be is to be-in-the-world—always already acting. Even in physics, specifically in quantum mechanics, this principle holds strange but powerful sway. A particle exists in multiple states until observed—until an action collapses possibility into reality. Without observation, without that interaction, there is only potential, not actuality. Viewed this way, life is not a continuous state of being, but a continuous process of becoming. We are transient sparks, “blurbs” of existence, emerging through a chain of actions. Our birth was action. Our growth, expression, and decay—action. Death is the cessation of action, and perhaps the reversion to default: the unexist. But I think, as conscious beings, we possess the power to generate existence. We write, and the words live on. We paint, and form appears where once there was blankness. We plant a tree, and its roots split soil that was previously untouched. These acts stretch our limited presence into something larger, more enduring. In this way, the zero-to-one idea—the generative moment where something becomes—becomes sacred. Philosopher Hannah Arendt saw action as the most human of conditions—a way to insert oneself into the fabric of the world. Not through survival, but through initiative. Through creation. Through impact. Every time we act with intention, we extend our thread in the tapestry of Being. So maybe the universe is less like a container of things, and more like a process of things happening. We are not passive inhabitants—we are catalysts. And when we stop, when no more action occurs, there is no more existence. Just the quiet return to what has always been the default: unexist.

Louis Prang & Co. (American, 1824 – 1909) We like to imagine that philosophy is for everyone. Anyone, anywhere, can read Plato, Kant, or Nietzsche and join in a discussion. That’s the fantasy, right? But let’s be real. In Indonesia, most of us don’t get anywhere near that kind of education. Such as our 12 years of mandatory schooling don’t even offer philosophy as a subject. Or also, the high school graduates or anyone who decided to choose philosophy as their major in university would be questioned a lot, ‘What job will you do if you graduate?’, ‘You’d have a harder time finding a job!’ So, how are we supposed to engage in philosophy? From the start, this field doesn’t really belong to us. We never seem to be invited in, either.  And even if we wanted to explore it on our own, there’s a huge barrier: the price of books. Not just philosophy books–any book that, in hope, can guide us to think more than what we've been told in our daily life. A single title from a major publisher can cost as much as a full day’s wage under the UMK (regional minimum wage). That’s not an exaggeration. For many workers, choosing to buy a book means sacrificing a day of meals, transport, or bills.  Imported books are even worse. They can cost two, three times more than what people in the West pay for the same title. Meanwhile, second-hand bookstores in countries like Germany or the US sell entire shelves of literature, science, and philosophy for the price of a single coffee.  Let’s Talk About the Pigs In Animal Farm, the animals start equal. They overthrow their human master (Sir Jones) to build a society where no one is above the other. However, we all know what happens: the pigs—clever, educated, strategic—rise to the top. They start making the rules, twisting language, manipulating the other animals who are not as smart as them, and eventually become the new masters (repeating the old pattern, but even worse because they build it by layering too many lies in the name of the animal's welfare).  ‘At least, we are working for our own sake, not for selfish humans anymore!’  The pigs don’t work the fields. They don’t bleed. They say their energy is spent on thinking, so they write the laws, teach, and argue. Over time, one of the leaders (because at that time, they had the two smartest pigs between them until one of them betrayed and stabbed the other’s back), convinced the other animals that ‘everything is for their own good’, even when it is clearly not. This isn’t just a metaphor for corrupt governments. The author provides the readers with a big picture of the ‘what-ifs’ when the people don’t even know how to use critical thinking or even stop training themselves to be critical–they would be monopolized and taken advantage of by those who can use it.  In this short classic novel written by George Orwell, the animals cannot fight back because they are too tired (being manipulated by the smart pigs, so the animals won’t notice that the slavery is not slavery, that they work for themselves, for their own good). Also, they are too uneducated, or too trusting (which turns to blindly obeying the rules that harm them without noticing it). Isn’t it familiar to get back into the real world? Who gets to study philosophy? Who gets to argue for justice, ethics, and freedom? Usually, it is the ones who don’t have to fight for survival. The pigs. Socrates Had Free Time Ancient Greek society had this idea called scholē (σχολή)--it’s actually where the word ‘school’ comes from. But scholē didn’t mean chilling or vacation. It meant being free from physical labor, free from the stress of basic survival, so you could spend your time on ‘higher’ things like politics, art, and yes, philosophy. At that time, the freedom of leisure was only for a specific class: elite, free, wealthy males. Everyone else—women, slaves, laborers–were left to do the hard work that kept society going and were excluded from this practice. As one scholar put it: “Only elite, free wealthy males had the time to achieve this higher level of spirituality and exercise the freedom of leisure while the servants represented by slaves, women, and the poor were relegated to serve the necessities of the elite and excluded from the practice of leisure” (Sugiyama, 2013, p. 6)” Yes, Socrates was smart, and he was a product of a system that allowed him to think, while others did not have that luxury. This is not to say that people here ‘cannot’ think. Of course, all of us have this ability. Let me underline that there’s a difference between having ‘potential’ and having ‘access’, and the truth–bitter pill we have to swallow–is that access isn’t equal. So, What Now? Is Thinking a Luxury Forever? Philosophy is the main foundation of getting us to think deeper and question everything. If we accept that only the pigs get to think, what happens next? Does it mean we have to accept our faith for being unprivileged ones and turn into stop questioning the world just because it is out of our ‘league’? Of course not. The main purpose of why this article was written is to remind you, the one who is reading this now, to shift how we view philosophy. Philosophy has to come down from the Tower of Babel. It has to stop acting like it is only for the bookworms, written in academic journals or thick expensive imported books. Philosophy has always belonged to the people, all types of people.  Thinking can be radical. Asking ‘why’ is powerful. It doesn’t matter if we don’t have a formal education in logic or metaphysics, we–yes, you and I–can still challenge the systems around us. In fact, we have to.  Philosophy as Protest, Not Performance Philosophy must become a tool of protest against injustice that harms us, not merely a performance. It must stop being a luxury hobby and start becoming a survival skill. Not just TikTok's quoting Socrates from Plato’s books, but thinking that leads to real-world change. It can start with small things, such as questions about why our schools (usually the public ones) teach obedience over curiosity, or challenging who benefits from certain laws and policies. Those are philosophies, too.  No More Pigs If we want to break the cycle, only the pigs can think; we need to democratize thinking. That means making books more affordable (without making the authors and the publishers suffer). It means reimagining education to include questioning, not just memorizing. I hope we will never repeat the same mistake that the animals on the farm did.  So, do you want to be like the animals who let the pigs think for you?

Generated using OpenAI's DALL·E based on a custom prompt designed by the author. Imagine a quiet morning. A cup of coffee steams gently on a warm wooden table, and sunlight softly slips through the cracks of the window. But before taking the first sip, your hand reaches for the phone. Notifications flare up—breaking news, incoming messages, someone just posted photos from their holiday in Santorini. And suddenly, the morning that once felt still is now noisy—not with sound, but with thought. This is the face of our world today. The digital era, with all its marvels, has seeped into the very pulse of human life. We live in a constantly connected world. Technology has reshaped how we learn, work, communicate—even how we feel. The world moves faster. The world becomes compact. And often, the world becomes overwhelming. Once, to send a message to someone far away, you would write a letter and wait weeks for it to arrive. Today, one message crosses continents in seconds. In the past, national exams were taken with pencils and paper; now they are fully digital—fast, efficient, with instant results. Even in job recruitment or scholarship selections, machines now assess what used to be evaluated by human hands. It feels as if the world is in a race to accelerate everything. Yet in this acceleration, a fundamental question arises: can the human soul truly run as fast as machines? Social media exemplifies this tension. We no longer merely connect—we now display, compare, and measure ourselves. We witness fragments of others’ lives: their achievements, happy relationships, ideal bodies, lavish vacations. And in the silence of our own rooms, we scroll and begin to wonder: Why am I not like them? Why does my life feel so...ordinary? We become entangled in the logic of algorithms—feeding us more of what we click, like, or fear. We search for validation, unknowingly handing over the reins of our emotions to digital buttons. And here, Stoicism arrives as a way home. The Stoic philosophy, born thousands of years ago on the streets of Athens and Rome, is not merely about inner toughness. It is the art of living with full awareness. Philosophers like Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, and Seneca didn’t write from ivory towers—they spoke from lives filled with storms. And they all taught one essential principle: distinguish between what is within your control, and what is not. Henry Manampiring, in his book Filosofi Teras, articulates this principle in a way that speaks directly to the modern soul: “What we can control is our own response. What we cannot control includes everything else—others' opinions, the weather, football match results, even how people feel about us.” (Manampiring, 2018, p. 26) In today’s digital context, this teaching becomes a compass in the fog. We cannot control what others post, which opinions go viral, or how algorithms curate our feeds. But we can control how we respond. We can resist being provoked. We can choose not to be swept away by endless comparison. We can refuse to let external applause define our self-worth. Stoicism doesn’t ask us to abandon technology. Rather, it invites us to use it mindfully—with clarity, with pauses, with inner stillness. When we scroll through social media, Stoicism whispers: This is not about them. This is about living in alignment with your own values. It also teaches ataraxia—a state of serene calm, untouched by praise or insult. In a digital world that constantly builds illusions—of perfection, of productivity, of performative success—inner peace becomes a radical form of courage. Sometimes, that courage is in the smallest acts: turning off notifications, taking a brief break from social media, or journaling in private instead of posting online. The courage to tell yourself: I don’t need to be constantly visible in the digital world to feel truly alive. Technology is a tool, not a goal. It is a vehicle, not the road itself. Without awareness, we become passengers who’ve lost direction. But with awareness—with philosophies like Stoicism—we become drivers who know where this life is going. And perhaps, on some quiet morning, when we choose not to check our phones first thing, when we sit in silence and take a slow breath, we are already practicing Stoicism in its simplest form. Not in lofty Latin phrases. But in stillness. In pause. In reclaiming control of our inner life.

Life: The True Definition of Balance and Moderation Life is the core manifestation of chaos and order. It is what makes them so painfully distressing, yet beautiful; so difficult to understand, yet alluring; and so unpredictably disordered, yet organized. These co-existing polar opposites are what make life the true definition of balance and moderation, making it a universal objective truth of nature. Needless to say, no matter its objectivity, the cold hard truth is that it can still be incredibly frustrating to make sense of life. Is it with us or against us? Yin and Yang: A Philosophy that Anchors Life in Chaos and Order In crisis—whether it’s because of failing to achieve your dreams, losing a job, or suffering the loss of a loved one—it is so easy for us to think that life must have a malicious intent against us, to put us in constant misery, a “rabbit hole” that seems to get deeper and deeper with every step and every breath we take, all with a seemingly minute chance for us to climb back to the top. However, does life really have a personal vendetta toward us? Isn’t life just… life? Doesn’t it just exist, regardless of whether we exist or not in the first place? If so, isn’t it very likely that the narratives we tell ourselves are biased? After all, we’re not the only ones trapped by its constant grip of pain, suffering, and anxiety. It is so interesting how the human mind creates stories to cope with the crisis of life. I believe that our constant “pangs” to create that story are driven by our primordial appetite to piece together things that we have yet to understand—which is life itself. However, since we have already established that we’re prone to biases, what kind of story should we tell ourselves in times of crisis then? Better yet, what principles should we anchor our stories on? When Crisis Strikes, Values and Meaning Are All You Have For Muslims, the true meaning of life is to surrender and submit to God. For Christians, it is to live a life full of faith and good works, according to the will of God. For Buddhists, it is to let go of worldly attachments and reach true enlightenment. Outside of religion, philosophers and thinkers have also been trying to answer the question “what is the meaning of life?” But I think the true question really is: “What principle should we depend on to stay sane and make sense of life’s tragic suffering when, in and of itself, it cannot be understood in the first place?” “He who has a why can bear almost any how.”— Friedrich Nietzsche This is a quote from Nietzsche that I resonate with. He (us), who has a why (purpose and meaning in life), can bear (persevere through) almost any how (any crisis of life). I believe what makes this quote so beautiful is that it tells us we don’t always need to understand what to make of life. Really, what we need to focus on instead is figuring out why we are doing the things we do in the first place. Does it come from a deep-rooted meaning and purpose, or a shallow and easily disturbed motive? A deep sense of meaning and purpose is what we need when we face a crisis. When something strenuous happens that tests our will, sanity, and motivation, it is what keeps us anchored—to push through and persevere, regardless of how difficult life can be. This fact is what makes parents continue to care for their children and raise them the best they can, regardless of the flaws, inconvenience, and fatigue that come with parenthood. It is because they believe their sons and daughters have the potential to make the world a slightly better place, which is a deep cause in itself. When a crisis happens, we should look for our meaning. It is what keeps us sane when we should be insane. It is what keeps us motivated when we should be demotivated. And more importantly, it is what keeps us going in the right direction and living a fulfilling life—when we could easily stray toward the wrong path that leads to unnecessary suffering and pain. At the very least, meaning helps us experience only the necessary amount of suffering and pain. Because we cannot avoid it in life—we just need to learn how to live with it. Stay Sane, Stay Meaningful The next time we face a crisis, we should ask ourselves, “What matters to me now?” and “What meaning should I uphold to keep myself together?” Meaning should be deeply rooted in our being. Meaning cannot be shallow, as it can be easily shaken when crisis comes. Meaning cannot be hedonistic, as it will only last for the short term. Meaning cannot be materialistic, as it is tied to easily replaceable worldly attachments. Most importantly, meaning cannot be forced—you need to believe in it. So, anchor your sanity with meaning, and persevere in times of crisis.

Civilization can exist because of madness, the history of human civilization runs because of it. The madness of God's creation called humans has created civilization from the past until now and is guaranteed to continue to develop until the end of the world. Human madness began with the madness of daring to oppose the Creator's command which then made them expelled from the comfort of heaven, wandering on earth until, madly committing the first crime of murder, then continuing to the development of civilization spiced with human madness for ambition, domination, slavery, colonization, and greed, innovation, creativity that produces life or sacrifices life that occurs primitively in the ancient era, until the era of the development of sophisticated technology today. The emergence of machines that overthrew the position of humans as the most skilled and intelligent in the industrial revolution era which then made humans lose their dignity as the most skilled because they were considered inferior to their own creations, their creations, humans who were higher in education, social status, and way of thinking than other humans who were considered lower. Other humans replaced the role of other humans with their creations: machines, on the grounds that the machines they created were better than other humans who were below them in status and strata. The madness of the human mind that does not respect other humans is a hereditary legacy, discrimination, domination drives civilization even though it is not a good form but it happened in the past and for a very long time. It still exists now and is real. Slavery is already an act of madness, of course, other humans make humans who look different as workers to produce wealth for other humans who are higher in rank. The division and separation of classes, the division and separation of strata, are the most influential forms of social discovery in human civilization and are also forms of human madness that they say all are the same and equal in the eyes of the Creator, but cannot be in the eyes of fellow humans. The madness of the history of civilization has begun from the idea that there is another group of humans who are better than other types of humans. Differences and diversity when viewed from another angle show how crazy some humans are in thinking and acting. This then manifested in slavery and colonization, which can be read and already exist in history books studied in schools during twelve years of education, which turned out to be partly a form of propaganda from some groups of political and historical scholars who wanted to romanticize history which then manifested in the writings of printed school books that were read, by only mentioning parts that were felt to be able to foster a spirit of nationalism. This also includes a form of madness of humans who in terms of educational dimensions are better at creating and carving the mindset of other humans so that they think according to the direction of the theme that has been determined by their group. The madness of humans who consider other humans better or worse than them from the macro nature such as slavery and mass colonization then manifests into another form, namely mass murder (genocide). Based on feeling that certain types and groups of humans are better, then other types of humans who are considered unequal, not equal to themselves are slaughtered, destroyed. All efforts are made so that the unequal types can disappear without a trace but the universe prevents it, indeed many disappear, but not all. There are still those who survive, develop and grow. The dead disappear, the living reproduce again. Another form of human madness is, all means are used to achieve goals, such as the ruling kings, the tyrants of ancient times and the era of war kingdoms achieving the goal of wanting to become gods in the world, carrying out domination in the form of genocide on millions of other humans to dominating themselves so as not to be caught or killed so as not to be dominated by others. Madness and domination are closely related, it turns out. Many types of people who want to dominate everything, we can find them if we stand in front of a mirror. Look in front of the mirror, there is that figure, a crazy figure who wants to take and own everything beyond the reach of his two hands and two feet. Who wants to know more than his thinking capacity can bear. Who wants to feel more than his feelings can feel. That is a form of madness. Madness and domination want all of that then known as ambition, which then manifests two positions, negative and positive. With the foundation of madness, ambition is composed, positive and negative dominance into a building of body and mind that moves. This crazy body and mind then shaped civilization and moved it. The crazy mass slaughter carried out by tyrant kings, occurred because of the energy of madness in their crazy bodies and minds, which had acted up throughout the history of civilization. War and massacre are indeed wrong, they are things that must be stopped. But we cannot close our eyes to the fact that the crazy acts of murder, massacre in war shaped our civilization today. Denying the history that war and massacre are among those that shaped the attitude of awareness to uphold peace and love more so that we can live fairly safely and peacefully in this world is a form of madness. Why? Because as the advice in the self-growth industry books that profit from writing repetitive topics about self-development to nudge the fragile mentality of the modern generation today "accepting what has happened in order to be able to move forward" even though it is a hard thing but it is a good thing. Madness shapes and builds the human body and mind to run the wheels of civilization. Madness produces innovations that shape and drive civilization positively and negatively. The negative forms as discussed above, slavery, colonization, and genocide although crazy, sadistic, and uncivilized, cannot be denied are things that shape our civilization today. We stand and live our daily lives on land where humans enslave and colonize each other, war and slaughter each other. From this crazy human body and mind, various forms of good works are born. Not all craziness produces bad things. Positive craziness produces crazy wild ideas that are then useful in developing technology for innovation that facilitates human civilization. The crazy idea of ​​how a spinning wheel can help reduce human energy to move and move heavy objects and move from one location to another which then became the forerunner of vehicles such as cars and motorbikes, reducing human energy to not spend too much energy to walk. The Industrial Revolution, although it marginalized humans by machines, also made human work faster, more effective and efficient. The crazy idea of ​​an airplane to make humans feel like they are transporting through the sky which for hundreds of years could only be seen, then could become an alternative route for air transportation. The discovery of a sophisticated machine called a computer which was carried out in stages starting from the Gutenberg printing press which was a machine for panning grapes to being developed and continuously updated for years by many scientists to become a computer the size of a room with a small memory capacity, until it could develop crazily, changing in size to a personal computer that could be enjoyed by every home in the form of the first PC in history, the Altair 8800 which produced many young computer scientists who with their crazy ideas built software businesses like Linux and Bill Gates with Microsoft, also Steve Jobs with Apple. Step back for a moment with the discovery of the telephone as a form of the madness of the human body and mind in realizing their crazy ambition to be able to directly connect communication between humans who are in distant places without having to send letters which then developed into a mobile phone from a long antenna with many buttons to a small cellphone with a touch screen feature without any buttons at all. Humans use madness as energy in innovating, continuing to the discovery of the internet network that forms and changes all the old but gold innovations of the old technology era to become more advanced and modern, which can make this vast and big world feel small and in the palm of your hand. What happens abroad can be known by people from other countries without having to visit the country directly. The innovation of internet technology which then became a major dominance of the human group who are capable and smart to regulate the world, regulate humans, and create a new system of rational and moral colonization also innovated along with the development of human madness in forming and building civilization. Restlessness, discomfort, wild and crazy thoughts produce things that make life develop and move forward, although full of instability but the effort to find stability is a form of madness of the human body and mind that is crazy and wild. Human madness with technological innovation and systems for the ambition of domination to regulate nature and fellow humans has not changed from time to time. The body and mind formed from madness only change the platform of domination and ambition to colonize and enslave from what used to be physical and open, now it becomes subliminal latent and still attacks the physical, but not only colonizing and enslaving the physical. Now it also attacks the mental and moral of other humans too. Our human civilization is formed and built on the foundation of madness, the walls of madness, and built by human builders and architects with continuous madness, driven by the madness of humans from generation to generation continuously from the upstream to the downstream of the madness of civilization. The madness of Adam and Eve is passed down from generation to generation to us, their descendants.

For as long as people have looked up at the stars or wondered about their purpose, science and religion have offered different kinds of answers. Sometimes they clash, but more often than not, they’re just asking different questions. Both science and religion are systems of understanding, they help us make sense of life, just in different ways. Philosophers and scholars have spent centuries trying to define what sets them apart and where, if anywhere, they overlap. Science, at its core, is about observing the world, testing ideas, and being willing to change when new evidence comes along. Philosopher Karl Popper (1959) argued that what makes science “scientific” is its falsifiability, that is, if a theory can’t be tested or potentially proven wrong, it doesn’t belong in the scientific realm. This idea makes science a self-correcting process, always ready to revise itself in light of new data. That being said, science isn’t just a steady march of progress. Thomas Kuhn (1962) famously argued that science actually goes through major revolutions, or what he called “paradigm shifts.” In other words, science isn’t just about building on what came before, it sometimes throws out old ways of thinking entirely when a new model explains things better. This shows that science, while based on evidence, is still shaped by human perspectives and communities. Religion, on the other hand, deals less with testable facts and more with meaning, morality, and purpose. It answers questions like “Why are we here?” and “What does it mean to live a good life?” These aren’t questions that can be solved in a lab. Philosopher Paul Tillich (1957) described religion as someone’s “ultimate concern,” or the deepest commitment that gives life meaning. For many people, that concern is centered around a divine presence or a spiritual truth. Alvin Plantinga (2000) took it a step further by arguing that belief in God doesn’t need to be proven like a scientific hypothesis. He called it a “properly basic belief” something we’re rational to accept even without evidence, like trusting our memories or sensing that the world is real. In this view, religion is its own kind of knowing. Mircea Eliade (1957) also talked about how religion helps people make sense of their lives by creating sacred spaces, rituals, and stories. These don’t explain the physical world the way science does, but they help people feel connected to something greater and provide a moral compass. So, how do science and religion relate to each other? Stephen Jay Gould (1999) came up with the idea of “non-overlapping magisteria” (NOMA). He believed science and religion don’t need to fight because they cover different domains, science explains how things work, and religion explains why they matter. It’s a clean way to keep the peace between the two. Ian Barbour (2000) offered a more flexible model with four options: conflict, independence, dialogue, and integration. Sometimes science and religion clash, like in debates about evolution. Other times, they stay in their own lanes. But there are also moments where they talk to each other or even work together, for example, using religious ethics to guide scientific innovation. In the end, science and religion are both trying to understand reality, just through different lenses. Science helps us figure out the mechanics of the universe, while religion gives us the tools to ask what it all means. Maybe instead of choosing one over the other, we should learn to value both for what they offer.

—But Now I Know, Behind It All Lies Wounds and a Life Never Fully Seen— I used to despise idealists. Those who lived in their heads, walked with dreams, and refused to play by the brutal rules of the real world. People who kept writing though no one read them, who kept creating despite no applause, who kept speaking of “direction” and “meaning of life” while the rest of us were just trying to survive another day. I thought they were naive. Too fragile to face the cold logic of reality. Too strange to be taken seriously. They looked like people living in ivory towers, clinging to abstract values while letting their bodies and time be devoured by struggle. I used to mock them in silence. Even laughed at a friend who turned down a stable job, saying he wanted to “protect his soul,” “reflect,” or “stay true to himself.” But now, I feel ashamed. Because I know what it’s like to wake up and not know why. I know how it feels to work in a job I don’t believe in—just to stay afloat. I know the fatigue of walking home late at night with a buzzing mind and no one to talk to. I know the feeling of running on empty, of living simply because I haven’t stopped breathing yet. Gradually, I Began to Understand That anger, that cynicism—it turned into silence. Because slowly, I began to see that those I once called “naive” were actually trying to preserve the one thing they still had: their inner self. “And who could go on living, if they had to sacrifice themselves?” — Nietzsche I remember asking my friend, “Why didn’t you take that job?” He looked at me calmly and said, “I’m afraid that if I go into that system, I’ll lose myself.” At the time, I sneered inwardly. But now, after years of grinding through life, I get it. He wasn’t afraid of work—he was afraid of forgetting who he was. I remember one night, sitting on the porch after work, cigarette in hand, too tired to do anything but stare at the sky. That was the moment I realized: this isn’t living. This is just surviving. I felt like a piece of driftwood, floating without direction. And suddenly, I understood why I’d been so annoyed by idealists. They reminded me of the part of myself I’d already abandoned. Being a Candle in the Wind I began to see them differently. People who keep their tiny food stalls open even when customers are few. People who stay in underpaid jobs not because they love it, but because it gives them a sliver of dignity. People who post on YouTube though no one’s watching. Who livestream into the void. Who writes poetry no one reads. Who teaches children in remote towns, even when society doesn’t care. Who treat patients in conflict zones. Who still tries. Who still cares. They are like little candles in the wind—fragile, but still lit. From the outside, maybe it looks like a delusion. But from the inside, that’s what existence is. “To be human is to stand at the edge of an abyss and still take a step. Not because you believe there’s ground ahead—but because standing still changes nothing.” That’s where I found something I hadn’t seen before: idealism isn’t the opposite of reality. Sometimes, it’s born from being crushed by it. When the world gets too loud, too cruel, too fast—some people choose to live by values, not numbers. Stillness, not noise. Words I Once Mocked, Now I Mourn Before I continue, allow me to write a short letter to someone I once loved (though she’ll never read it): “Thank you for being there, love. Now I must walk alone—through silence, through solitude. I don’t hate you, and I won’t forget your kindness. But I’ve chosen to keep moving—despite the emptiness that lingers.” (From Kamal to Sarah: Rest in Peace) Losing her didn’t take away the life I once imagined with her. In fact, from that loss, I began to see clearly the kind of life I’ve always longed for. She once said, after a night of shared intimacy, lying side by side: “I want a simple life. To write novels. Keep a dog. Water the plants. Live somewhere quiet with someone I love.” At the time, I said nothing. Inside, I laughed. Thought she was daydreaming. Now, with distance, her words echo in my tired chest. Because the further I go, the more I long for what once felt childish: a life that’s peaceful, honest, and doesn’t demand that I kill part of myself just to stay alive. After all this, I’ve come to understand: idealism doesn’t belong to a strange few—it lives in anyone trying to survive without losing their soul. We Don’t Need to Split the World I no longer divide the world between idealists and materialists. Because we all carry both. Even office workers can nurture a small flame of idealism over morning coffee. Even artists can feel the sharp edge of economic pain. “Each person brings their own subjectivity into their interaction with the world.” And me—I’m still writing. Not for recognition, but because I know: if I stop, I’ll lose my soul. Final Words: The Quietest Courage So now, when I see someone who still dares to believe in dreams, who still writes though unread, who still creates though unseen, who still smiles through exhaustion, who still stands though the world is unfair— I no longer judge them. Because now I know: they’re not running from reality. They’re building one that doesn’t kill them. “Real humans may appear broken. But from the ruins, they create meaning no system can offer.” I know now—beneath all of it—there are wounds, and love, and failure, and longing for a whole life. Anyone who stands in the middle of that storm deserves to be called a fighter—not because they win, but because they’re still here. And if I’m still standing today, it’s because I choose to remain human—not perfect, but present. And that, I think, is the quietest kind of courage.

In 2018, schoolteacher Baiq Nuril Maknun was sentenced to six months in prison and a fine of 500 million rupiah after the Supreme Court of Indonesia convicted her of defamation under UU ITE law (Electronic Transactions Law) for recording evidence of sexual harassment she faced from her principal ( CNN , 2019). She was prosecuted under Article 27(3) of Chapter VII, which states, “Any Person who knowingly and without authority distributes and/or transmits and/or causes to be accessible Electronic Information and/or Electronic Records with contents of affronts and/or defamation” ( Indonesian Government, n.d. )—outlining prohibited electronic communications, but not explicitly stating their penalties. Although public outcry and legal appeals led to her eventual amnesty, many others have not been so fortunate.  Currently, in Indonesia, many are being restricted in their right to speak out, despite our Constitution granting us the right to free speech ( Indonesia Const., Art. 28E,  1945 ). But how is this happening, you may ask? This occurs due to legal ambiguity that enables broad and subjective interpretation, a blessing for those seeking to shield themselves from criticism, but a curse for the majority—especially activists, journalists, artists, and everyday citizens—who can’t navigate or defend themselves against these rubber laws. This blurred line between free speech and speech that constitutes criminality—which remains undefined—only worsens the problem. One justification for speech restrictions is hate speech, often defined as ‘hostile speech’. Even so, hostility is subjective and open to interpretation, leaving room for the criminalization of dissent from authorities under vague laws like Article 28(2) of UU ITE ( Indonesian Government, n.d. ). Then again, this is not an issue unique to Indonesia. Citizens globally unite to fight against criminalization of speech. In Thailand, under lèse-majesté laws, activists and journalists have similarly been imprisoned ( CNN , 2021), demonstrating how legal ambiguity can be exploited for political control, enabling selective prosecution of society, particularly of journalists, activists, and opposition figures, reinforcing  state control. Indonesia’s current political climate is turbulent. While the current leaders of Indonesia are pushing for ambitious economic and infrastructural development, this focus comes at the cost of civil liberties. For example, initiatives such as Indonesia Vision 2045 ( Visi Indonesia Emas 2045 ), which aim to improve infrastructure and economic growth, have led to the deprioritization of civil liberties, highlighting the urgent need to restore balance and reemphasize their importance. As a result, because of the UU ITE law, actions such as the taking down of “defamatory” posts on social media sites such as TikTok have now begun to occur if they are “anti-state”. For example, in 2020, in response to the omnibus law passed, which made minimum wage laws less favorable to workers and reduced the decision-making role of local communities on environmental issues that impact their lives, when the online hashtag #ReformasiDikorupsi (#ReformCorrupted) spurred in social media as well as protests, The Widodo administration detained at least 600 citizens for organizing or taking part in the demonstrations ( Carnegie Endowment, 2020 ). Moreover, Indonesia’s national police chief issued a telegram urging every regional police department to participate in the effort to maintain control over any protests about the omnibus bill on job creation ( Jakarta Post, 2020 ). This begs the question: to what extent is government censorship an infringement on privacy and free speech? This is an especially pressing concern when those being discredited, and later faced with force, are being established so by being branded as “foreign-influenced” or “anti-state” simply because they express an unpopular opinion. Of course, genuine incitement to violence should not be protected–but this law is not being used solely for its purpose–it is also being weaponized against critics and whistleblowers. Furthermore, during the 2025 student protests #IndonesiaGelap (#DarkIndonesia), students were met with police crackdowns and arrests under speech laws. With protestors voicing grievances regarding economic hardship, rising unemployment, and government mismanagement, they were met with force, with some reporting being met by tear gas and facing jail time over their protesting ( CNN , 2025). Bands such as the Sukatani Punk Band, who criticized police corruption and abuse of power in their song “Bayar Bayar Bayar”, faced repercussions, with the lead singer being suspiciously dismissed from her job as a schoolteacher, and to issue an apology ( The Independent , 2025). Such suppression of artistic expression sends a chilling message to society: that voicing criticism—whether through music, protest, or art—can lead to professional and personal consequences. This not only silences individual voices but also weakens the role of cultural and artistic movements in holding power to account. If we sit silent and allow this to happen, our democracy is only in name. A country cannot be truly democratic if people fear speaking out. If criticism is punished, leaders face no accountability, leading to unchecked power. In this very moment, self-censorship is becoming the norm. If people fear job loss, intimidation, or surveillance, they are less likely to speak out. The current digital criminal codes are being used to silence dissenters, whether through legal charges or intimidation tactics. Protests are viewed as threats to national stability rather than a democratic participation tool, allowing the government to track, de-platform, and punish online dissenters.  When people, or our children , see artists, students, and activists being silenced, they will stop speaking out—even if they disagree with the government. A society where people are afraid to express opinions is not free. And without open debate, the public cannot make informed decisions, leading to manipulation and misinformation. Indonesia’s fight for free expression is entering a critical stage, and with increasingly sophisticated suppression methods, resistance will require new strategies. But the longer speech restrictions exist, the harder it becomes to reverse them. Future leaders can inherit and expand these powers, making repression the norm rather than the exception. Please use your voice and make those who are comfortable uncomfortable. Support independent media, protect those who speak out, engage in civic education, and demand legal reform that protects your free expression.  After all, to be silent is to be complicit. If we stay silent, our words may soon face the guillotine, and speaking out will no longer be a right, but a crime.

" Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself. Such is the first principle of existentialism. " ~ Jean-Paul Sartre  I choose to make this essay. That is my decision, I have paid the price and that’s what I’m going  to do with it as my responsibility. To be entirely honest, when I decided to join this event, I do  have some idea about what to write, but no idea about how am I going to write it. In the chaos of  my mind jumping around and exploring in the ‘flight of ideas’ that comes to mind when to write  about either justice, climate change, or even moral philosophy itself, I just can’t seems to come  with some original thought or conclusion regarding specific topic about any of it, so I decided to  just came up with something more abstract like philosophy. Thus, the idea that comes to mind was  to write this kind of personal essay that talks about itself and it’s struggle to be.  So, let’s begin.  The Absolute Absurdity of This Essay  "The human condition is absurd, as the confrontation between man's desire for significance,  meaning and clarity on the one hand—and the silent, cold universe on the other"  ~ Albert Camus  You want to hear something absurd? Yeah, this essay. As I said, I have no idea how I’m going to  write it. Ideas to write just flow around as I typing and that is actually kind of wild to think about  isn’t it? This quote comes to mind when I look about the topics of existentialism and what do I  know, absurdism is just part of it.  This specific quote actually describe my whole thought process when making this personal essay,  it talks about the absurdity condition that human can face with such desire but there is nothing  significance of it’s fruition when it comes to be in this cold, silent universe on the other side. The  example being myself, I have desire to make this essay. I even joined the competition since last  week, but as I realize when I sit down to type something. I’m facing the reality of no inspiration  and motivation to begin with.  It's so absurd because one day, you seems confident about yourself, about your capacity to do  something, but when it comes to actually do it, you suddenly realize that you don’t have any chance  at all. It’s kind of depressing when you think about it.  Procrastination And Existential Crisis  As day goes by, nothing seems to get done. I’m trying to do some research about the topics given  but the more I learned about the subject, the more I feel overwhelmed by the subject itself. The  only good thing I can said about the process is now I know a little bit more about climate change,  how exactly important the issue is, and how we should take part on it. Don’t even get me started  about the dilemma ambiguity of law and justice because it’s whole different subject to learn and  think about. But when it comes to write a meaningful, thoughtful essay about it. As I facing my  monitor screen to write, nothing sort of words seems to come. So, I lay down and spend my time  doing something else, waiting for inspiration to kick in.  It never comes.  "He who has a why to live for, can bear with almost any how"  ~ Friedrich Nietzsche  I don’t have any strong reason to finish it. Days goes by without doing anything about the essay. I  procrastinate like a pro, and it comes to the point I feel desperate about it, to the point of realization  that maybe the essay will not be done after all. I feel hopeless about it and there is nothing I can  do.  To Be or Not To Be ….  …. that is the question ( Wiliam Shakespeare, Hamlet ). Clocks ticking and comes the final day. As  I eating my first meal of today in the dawn. I came to realize that maybe it’s not about the content  of the essay, but more about the existence of the essay itself. There is still the third topic after all  that prompts us to talk about it. “Existence precedes essence”  ~ Jean-Paul Sartre  I present to you the core concept of existentialism, defined by this quote. Which is the reason this  essay comes to be. It’s controversial because it begs to differ the general consensus of Aristotle  and Aquinas who thought that essence precedes individual existence. But the meaning of the words  itself, comes with the wisdom of freedom and projection of choice. It’s not about the one existence  should be formed based of a previously designed model or a precise purpose. But rather, one should  choose his why to exist by it’s own choice to engage in such condition. The concept is all about to  assert that there is no predetermined essence in being, and that an individual’s essence were defined  by the individual through how that individual choose to live his or her life.   "Man first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world – and defines himself  afterwards"  ~ Jean-Paul Sartre. Existentialism is a Humanism  So I create this essay. Not because I need to, but because I want to. I want to live up to this quote,  and thus comes my ‘why’ for this essay to be. This essay comes first, the meaning comes later.   The meaning of this can even be anything based on the reader’s assumption and interpretation,  but for all I know that is the very definition of existence itself. It can be very ridiculous in its  own sense, but what gives it meaning is what it choose to be afterwards.  Whether it will come to the wider audience or not, whether it will just be some form of email  attachment, the essay has exist. I created it, and I choose for it to be completed. Such thing is  fulfilling enough for me.  “The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very  existence is an act of rebellion.”  ~ Albert Camus

The Illusion of the Ordinary Worker Picture yourself as an ordinary worker, living in a country that seems to be slowly unraveling. As prices climb higher every week while your wages remain stagnant, it’s as if time itself has conspired to trap you in the same exhausting routine. Buying a house? Forget it, property values have skyrocketed. Meanwhile, The government seems more concerned with maintaining power than addressing the crushing weight of society’s daily work life. Their promises of “stability” ring hollow, as though spoken from a world far removed from ours. At work, the signs are everywhere. Your colleague, once full of energy, now spends his breaks complaining—not about the job itself–but the sheer futility of it. He works overtime yet his paycheck doesn’t accommodate it. Two of your coworkers were laid off recently yet their tasks didn’t disappear with them. Instead, their tasks were quietly handed to you, as if your time had magically tripled. But of course, your salary remained the same. Outside, university students and activists pour into the streets, shouting for accountability, demanding that the government answers for this mess. You watch them from a distance, their chants echoing in the back of your mind. Clearly, something isn’t right. Jacques Lacan (1901-1981), the French Psychoanalyst. Taken in 1967. Right? But then, there’s that voice—the one that’s been with you since childhood. Your parents, your elders, your bosses, and now the endless parade of influencer-motivators on TikTok and Instagram all say the same thing: Don’t complain. Don’t be negative. Work hard , and you’ll climb the ladder . Good things come to those who endure. So you keep your head down, working, waiting, hoping. After all, speaking up feels dangerous—like admitting you’re losing. But here’s the question: What happens when someone refuses to act in the face of crisis? What if doing nothing isn’t the safe choice you were led to believe? What if, by staying silent, you’re slowly disappearing? In moments of crisis, when the ground beneath daily life begins to shift, it’s easy to think that doing nothing—keeping your head down and waiting for the storm to pass—is a form of survival. But in psychoanalysis, particularly the theories of Jacques Lacan, offers a far more unsettling perspective: passivity is not neutral . It’s an active refusal to confront reality, a slow dissolution of the self. To understand how this happens, we can turn to Lacan’s framework of the Real, the Imaginary, and the Symbolic—three intertwined orders that shape how we experience the world and ourselves within it. The Illusion of Stability Your life, like most people’s, is structured by what Lacan calls the Symbolic Order—the vast web of language, laws, and social expectations that give the world its shape and logic. From childhood, you were taught a script: work hard, stay out of trouble, and you’ll build a stable life. The Imaginary supports this belief, creating a comforting fantasy where the economy is fair, the government—however flawed—ensures order, and social mobility is achievable if you just keep your head down and persevere. This is the foundation of your desire: to succeed within this system, to earn your place, to eventually “make it.” For years, this belief holds. You wake up, go to work, collect your paycheck, and plan—however vaguely—for a future where things will be better. This is how the Symbolic functions: it organizes your reality, telling you that the discomfort of today is temporary, and that the system, though slow, ultimately rewards effort. Even when small cracks appear—when wages stagnate or housing prices rise—you rationalize them, believing this is just a rough patch, not a structural failure. But then the cracks widen. The economy takes a nosedive. Prices soar while your salary stays the same. You watch the news, and the truth becomes impossible to ignore: the government isn’t just inefficient; it’s corrupt, focused more on self-preservation than solving the crisis. You hear friends complain, see coworkers laid off, and realize you’re working harder for the same pay, carrying the weight of their absence without recognition or reward. Meanwhile, protests erupt—students demand accountability, voices rise, and for a brief moment, you feel that same rage, that same sense of injustice. This is the moment the Real breaks through: the raw, chaotic truth that the Symbolic Order was never as stable as it seemed. The fantasy of fairness shatters. You see the system for what it is—indifferent, perhaps even hostile—and in that moment, you could act. But you don’t. Instead, you retreat, telling yourself, as you always have, that things will get better, that complaining changes nothing, that working harder is the only path forward. Yet, deep down, the illusion is cracked, and the Real, once glimpsed, never fully disappears. It lingers, like a shadow, reminding you that the life you’re holding onto might already be gone. The Loss of Meaning and Authority As an ordinary worker, you live primarily within the Symbolic Order—the social and economic structures that give life a sense of coherence. You believe, or perhaps once believed, that working hard leads to stability, that the system, though imperfect, functions well enough to reward perseverance. This belief, however, starts to unravel when the recession hits, the government’s corruption becomes undeniable, and your labor is devalued in plain sight. This is the beginning of castration in Lacanian terms—not literal, but the realization that the system you trusted has no true authority, that its promises were always an illusion. This moment of castration presents a choice: to reconstruct your desire in a new way—by resisting, adapting, or reinventing yourself—or to retreat. And retreat, for many, feels safer. But this is where passivity takes root, drawing you back into the Imaginary Order—a place of fantasy and denial. You tell yourself it will get better, that complaining or acting out is dangerous or ungrateful. Yet the longer you wait, the more disconnected from reality you become, until your own desires are no longer your own. Lacanian psychoanalysis reveals that this descent into passivity is not just a loss of action but a loss of subjectivity—a slow disappearance into the margins of a world that no longer acknowledges you. And that is the real danger: not that the crisis will consume you, but that you will vanish before it ever does. The Retreat into the Imaginary Instead of confronting this rupture, you retreat—not into action, but into inaction, which Lacan would call a return to the Imaginary Order. It’s easier, after all. So, you keep going to work, even as your wages shrink in real value, quietly accepting that the same paycheck buys less every month. You watch the government’s incompetence unfold in plain sight—news of corruption scandals, public funds disappearing, promises broken—and though you feel the anger rising, you tell yourself, “It’ll get better. It always does.” This is the dangerous comfort of the Imaginary: a place of fantasy where the crisis is temporary, where if you just endure, the old stability will return. You imagine the government fixing things, your company recognizing your hard work, the economy bouncing back—but you take no steps toward making any of this happen. You don’t join the protests, don’t demand a raise, don’t even speak openly about your frustration. You just wait. But Lacanian psychoanalysis reveals a hard truth: passivity is not neutral. It’s not a harmless decision to “stay out of it.” It’s an active refusal to confront reality, a deliberate turning away from the Real, which demands action and change. In this refusal, you participate in your own erasure. By staying silent, by pretending the cracks in the system aren’t as deep as they are, you give your consent to the very forces that are diminishing you. Over time, this passive stance transforms into something darker—a loss of agency, a shrinking of your own sense of self. The more you avoid the Real, the more you cease to exist within it. What began as survival becomes surrender, and the longer you wait, the harder it becomes to remember that you ever had a choice. Which Way, Ordinary Worker? If you remain passive, the world will decide for you. This is the quiet, unsettling conclusion Lacanian psychoanalysis offers—not salvation, not a promise that things will work out in the end, but a stark recognition of how desire and subjectivity function. Desire, in Lacan’s view, is what drives action, what keeps you connected to life, to others, to the future. But passivity? That’s not just waiting—it’s the gradual loss of desire itself. The longer you retreat into the Imaginary, convincing yourself that things will “get better” without your involvement, the more your connection to reality frays. At first, this loss feels like relief. You tell yourself you’re being pragmatic, that fighting is pointless, that surviving is enough. But over time, the world moves on without you. The layoffs continue, prices rise, the government grows bolder in its corruption—and still, you wait. The protests you once watched from a distance fade, the people who demanded change grow quieter, and what once felt like a temporary crisis starts to seem like the new normal. Yet even in this late stage, you can still act. Lacan would say that as long as desire exists, so does the potential for rupture—for breaking free from the passive repetition that the Symbolic Order imposes. The question, though, is not can you act, but will you? Because if you refuse, the outcome is clear: history will erase you. Not in a dramatic, catastrophic way, but in the quiet dissolution of your subjectivity, your voice, your place in the world. The system does not need your consent to continue; it only needs your silence. And if you give it that, it will take everything else. The Tragedy of Passivity To do nothing is still a choice. That’s the unsettling truth beneath all of this. Passivity, despite how it feels, is not a form of protection. It’s surrender—slow, quiet, and absolute. Your fate remains unresolved, suspended in that delicate space between recognition and action. The system does not force them to comply; it simply waits for them to step aside, to let time and fear erode their will. But in the end, does it even matter if you never choose? That’s the haunting question. Perhaps the world won’t notice your absence. Perhaps history doesn’t record those who quietly disappear. And maybe that’s the real tragedy—not death, not collapse, but the gradual vanishing of those who refused to act. “When the world collapses, those who refuse to act do not survive—they disappear.”