"Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself," said Sartre, yet what is this “self” but, as Heraclitus whispered, a river that can never be stepped into twice? Plato urged that "the unexamined life is not worth living," but can life ever be fully examined, or do we peer through shadows on the wall, mistaking illusion for truth? Nietzsche declared, "he who has a why to live can bear almost any how," but what if the universe itself is silent, offering no why, only an endless how?
"Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself," said Sartre, yet what is this “self” but, as Heraclitus whispered, a river that can never be stepped into twice? Plato urged that "the unexamined life is not worth living," but can life ever be fully examined, or do we peer through shadows on the wall, mistaking illusion for truth? Nietzsche declared, "he who has a why to live can bear almost any how," but what if the universe itself is silent, offering no why, only an endless how?