Prologue

I can think, but am I alive?

In 1637, René Descartes wrote the phrase "Cogito, ergo sum," or in his mother tongue—"Je pense, donc je suis," effectively coining one of the most important statements in the history of humanity's philosophy. You might be more familiar with the English translation: "I think, therefore I am." This statement stemmed from Descartes himself doubting whether he was actually awake when he was writing these pages, and questioning if the world was just a trick conjured by an all-mighty deceiver, preying on his human senses, which were easily prone to deception. The more he thought of this, the more he found himself trapped in this paradox of reality around him. Then he arrived at this statement: "I think, therefore I am."

This, to Descartes, was an absolute certainty, an anchor to his existence, since when you are doubting your thoughts, you are still thinking. But even with such irrefutable certainty…

Am I really alive? Am I really present in this so-called reality?

As someone who has spent a great length of my existence honing my skills and senses, I can write essays on end about why the Mona Lisa of Leonardo da Vinci is so special, down to the last droplet of paint he used. I can describe the complexity of the notes of Beethoven's Hammerklavier, how the piano's notes make distinctive sounds and how the strings should be pressed to create the perfect performance. Blindfolded, I can differentiate, and replicate, the taste and smell of any dishes from any cultures around the globe. Moreover, though much simpler than what I can do, I can feel the breeze of wind, the cold of waves, and the sensation of the sun dancing on my surface.

So, risking being an egomaniac, I believe I am at the pinnacle of my knowledge and senses. But why do I still feel not alive? As if I am just a boat on the violent sea of life, just drifting afloat this reality. I am a superior boat, certainly…

Then it dawned on me. I am a boat with no direction, no purpose.

How could I have been so blind? The thought of what makes my life unfulfilled being simply the lack of purpose of my existence, not to mention how long it takes me to come to this realization, almost made me chuckle.

Logically, I started researching the meaning of "Purpose," in the hope to steer the boat, to feel alive. I read all the books I could find and watched all the lectures from eminent philosophers from the past until the current day. Of course, I also asked for opinions from my friends, my colleagues, my acquaintances, even random people I meet daily, since real-life experience is another valuable source of information. However, I was rather disappointed.

"Live a good life and enjoy the great things life has to offer"—some might say, unaware of the emptiness human would feel once experience or achieve those trivial vanity.

"What is a better purpose than helping those in need with your abilities and knowledge?"—a lot seemed to agree—"Just be a good person in life."

Is that it? Is that all there is to life? Be a good person?

But my friend, my dearest friend, said something that intrigued me: "With what you can do, I believe you can find a purpose for yourself. A good one even. But myself, I think that I am striving to leave something behind when my time on Earth is long over, something to be my legacy."

Yes.

Yes, I can. But if there is anything I lack, that's patience.