I. The Most Impossible Purpose

Every now and then, this body reminds me of its limits.

It’s been like this since I was 18. It comes and goes. Sometimes it’s gone for months—then suddenly it returns. As if to say, I’m still here. It’s a disgusting thing. But honest. You cannot fake bodily reactions; you have to feel them. In those moments, there is no consciousness—only the body.

I am mortal. Most people carry this as abstract knowledge in their heads, without ever feeling it. I remember it concretely from time to time. That’s the difference.

And I don’t care.

Standing in the midst of all this meaninglessness, I feel it.

The heat of the sun, gravity, blood circulation—all of it.

And I think only this:

Wonderful.

When Nietzsche wrote this in 1882, no one understood what he meant. Most still don’t.

Nietzsche’s “Wille zur Macht”—Will to Power—is not the desire to dominate others, as people assume.

The will to power is this: The drive to fully realize one’s potential.

A tree’s roots digging into a crack to break the rock is the will to power. An artist creating something that has never existed in the world before is the will to power. An engineer saying, “this could run more elegantly,” and rewriting the architecture from scratch at midnight is the will to power.

Nihilism is not a poison—it is an invitation.

Once you say “everything is meaningless,” two paths emerge:

You either lie there. Breathing until you die, but not living. Or you get up and construct meaning.

The second path is harder. Because there are no prefabricated materials. No guides. No validation. Only you, a blank desk, and the tools in your hands.

But whatever comes off that desk is yours. Entirely yours.

Not a corporation’s interests. Not a society’s expectation. Not a life optimized by an algorithmic system.

Yours.

And this—this feeling—is something no safe choice, no approved career, no herd decision in the world can ever give you.

Being strong is not a right—it is a responsibility. And the person who refuses to take this responsibility lives a lifetime by someone else’s values.

II. The Herd

The vast majority of people work systematically to avoid noticing the void.

Weekday routine. Weekend TV shows. Social media validation. Career ladders. Loans. Investments. Dreams of retirement. Repeat.

This is not malice. It is merely a defense mechanism. Generating meaning is exhausting. Creating your own values is terrifying. Because then, you might err. You might choose wrong. And there is no higher authority to absolve you.

So the herd established a mutual agreement: if everyone wants the same thing, no one has chosen wrong.

Nietzsche called this herd morality. I have another name for it: The Comfort Trap.

Bow to your status quo. Do what is expected. Rebel in small ways, but never step outside the system. Run in the same direction as everyone else—that way, even if you get lost, at least you merely get lost.

III. Who is Writing?

Society presents you with a list.

• Be approved.
• Be productive.
• Achieve measurable success.

And if you consent to every item on this list, life goes by much easier. Less friction, less judgment.

But this list is not made of your values.

Nietzsche’s idea is born here: He writes his own table of values. He doesn’t inherit it, he doesn’t accept it as a legacy—he creates it.

This is not anarchy. On the contrary, it is a far more responsible existence. Because I no longer have the excuse of “society wants it this way” or “God commanded it.” I chose. I chose. And if it’s wrong, I own that mistake.

I am not rejecting society. Society is real—and necessary. But the vast majority of values society offers you were shaped in their time to serve someone’s interests, passed down from generation to generation, and now nobody really knows why they are there anymore. That is how dogma works: once it loses its origin, it becomes unquestionable. Moreover, society should merely reduce uncertainty. It should not be a ruthless “machine” that crushes human souls.

Every human has the right to live happily, healthily, and freely. This is ancient, immutable. But who said the path to those rights had to be this one? Eras change. Objectives can remain the same, but the paths must change—and indeed, they are already changing. The only law that has remained unchanged since the dawn of time is this: everything changes, only change itself remains constant. No power has ever been able to oppose this.

“Graveyards are full of those who died for their honor.”

The public loves this. They frame it, hang it on the wall, read it at funerals. Because there is comfort built upon someone else’s sacrifice—they died, you live, and now, by calling them a “hero,” you make this asymmetry palatable to your conscience.

But corpses cannot speak. And if they could, these people would most likely say different things.

There is no pride in death. Suffering is not virtuous. Throughout history, the most tragic stories are those whom the public calls “heroes,” because the public is selfish by nature. This is natural, it is not a bad thing. When someone dedicates themselves to society, nothing of themselves remains. What is left is merely a symbol—a name that no longer has an owner, which the public will imbue with whatever meaning they desire.

And you are no longer inside that name.

When you die, you cannot hear the epics sung about you. You cannot guarantee the future of your children. Because this universe is uncertain by its very nature—an earthquake, a change in government, a traffic accident, an illness, or a knife from some unidentified thug can snatch away the child you watched over so fiercely, in your absence. You won’t be there to protect them. Because you are gone. You became a hero.

No matter how much you love or are loved, no matter how many bonds you forge, no matter how deep you root yourself—

You will always go to the operating room alone.

This is not pessimism. This is the cold, simple expression of the rawest truth. You were born alone. Despite everything, despite every bond, despite all love—you will die alone. No matter how crowded you are in the interval between, those two points are immutable.

Then the only real question remains: Within this solitude, what will you build for yourself? Don’t worry: as you build for yourself, those around you will also be warmed by what you build.

The answer to this question cannot be inherited. Values passed down from others—no matter how well-intentioned they were given—eventually shatter, because they do not belong to you. A person living with an externally imposed purpose is left empty inside when that purpose is questioned. There is no rule saying you must write your own table of values—it is just hard to write. Because then, the mistakes are yours as well. There is no higher authority to forgive. No system to seek refuge in.

That is why most people cannot write it.

My table of values is simple:

I do not forget the wisdom of the wild. I do not accept something working merely because it is customary. I push to the limits, constantly attacking and breaking them. However, if the boundary cannot hold, I do not overstep it. Because there is a fine line between dominance and cruelty. I do not sign off on anything without understanding. I do not set my goals based on someone else’s approval. and… humor/mischief(😏) is the only thing that makes this place bearable.

This is not a moral system. It is an existential stance.

IV. Why Do I Share?

The hardware I build could be destroyed in a trash bin tomorrow. The books I write could disappear unread. The systems I set up could collapse, and the traces I leave could be erased.

I did not do these things to contribute to humanity. Not for enlightenment, not for permanence, and absolutely not for approval. Because I’ve had a problem with authority since the dawn of time—it is my nature. I only like to form reliable partnerships with authorities based on mutual benefit; but in everything else, I detest it.

I did these things because I enjoyed doing them. It’s that simple, that absolute.

“So, why are you sharing?”

Honestly, a fair question.

Because humans are social creatures, which means for me, by my very nature, it is inevitable. But more importantly—these works have their own right to be known, by their very nature. Independent of me. Besides, this is sort of my personal notebook—it won’t appeal to many people. (…that’s how it will be, right? xD)

Enough talking about myself.

In this era, people are more free than ever. Contrary to popular belief, we are in the most peaceful period of history. Security, medicine, and access to food are at levels never seen before in history. For the first time in history, women are participating in the workforce at high rates, surpassing men in education and status, and for the first time in history, they are on the verge of owning nearly half of the total wealth. This means no one is forced anymore to fight just to survive or stay with someone they don’t want to. The most fundamental purpose of thousands of years—survive—has largely been solved.

What is left?

More consumption. More polished, more optimized, more efficient but completely empty routines. Meanings and purposes carried over generations have lost their nature because they have been instrumentalized. Now, people don’t even know why something is valued—they just pretend to value it because it has always been done that way and it yields returns.

Yes—having a child, raising them, is an ancient and beautiful feeling. It would be foolish to close that door. But knowing that this feeling will last a bit shorter than you think. And if you feel anger towards life with disappointment when that feeling passes—that purpose was never real with that person anyway. It was a goal the herd handed to you. Almost all children of famous figures in history failed to measure up to them or fell behind—because the perfect storm that made those people, that statistically impossible rarity, cannot be replicated through reproduction.

V. Assessment

In my 20s, I took a heavy psychological beating, and I grew up listening to my family’s experiences during the Ahiska exile, which taught me reality from a very young age.

At the absolute rock bottom of that period, on a day spent at the depths of the proverbial abyss, I realized this with cold detachment:

Even the most impossible purpose, one that won’t mean a thing after death, is better than purposelessness.

Because the universe is purposeless. That which is purposeless is dead.

There is no objective meaning in this universe—this is indisputable. But even the universe, at its core, seeks meaning. Matter coalesces, systems form, complexity arises spontaneously. The universe doesn’t offer you anything; but existing, emerging, occupying space—these things have a cost.

That cost is this: You must present it with a story.

A story that is not inherited, written out of passion rather than fear, and entirely yours—even if it is impossible.

My goal is not religious, not humanitarian, and highly impossible. And it is completely mine. And I will not let go of it.

This is not a declaration of resolve. It is merely an assessment—just like coldly taking notes when the body reminds me of its limits right now.

Because even if I cannot reach this goal, moving in that direction is always better than never having chosen a direction at all.

Purposelessness would kill me. An impossible purpose, at the very worst, keeps me alive.

EOF.