Living as if the World Is a Dream

Some conversations do not feel like conversations at all.
They feel like recognition.

You begin talking about freedom, and suddenly you are speaking about ships, isolation, movement, and prisons at the same time. Maritime life becomes a metaphor before it becomes a profession. Not because of money, but because of distance. Because of separation. Because of the ability to exist between places, unbound and unnoticed.

Freedom, it turns out, is not comfort.
It is movement without guarantees.

I have always been drawn to existentialism—not as a philosophy of despair, but as a philosophy of honesty. The kind that refuses to hide behind certainty. The kind that admits: I do not know what this world truly is.

What if life is a dream?
Not metaphorically—but structurally.

The mind constructs patterns, draws from memory, symbols, instincts, myths, and projects them outward. Films like Inception or Avatar did not invent this idea; they only reminded us of something ancient. Perhaps reality is not discovered, but rendered.

And then comes the uncomfortable thought:
If all I can ever truly know is my own mind, what does that make the world?

Solipsism is often misunderstood as arrogance.
In truth, it is loneliness sharpened into philosophy.

To live as a solipsist is not to deny others—it is to question the certainty of their existence. And paradoxically, it is often solipsists who crave community the most. Not crowds, not networks, but authentic recognition. Someone who understands that mythology is not fiction, but inner truth made visible.

Modern society trusts what is external.
Science describes what is outside of us, with precision and power. But when we forget what is within, we lose meaning. Mythology survives not because it explains the world, but because it explains experience.

Marriage, citizenship, careers—these are contracts. Useful ones. But contracts nonetheless. They categorize life into manageable fragments. Nature does not live this way. Meaning does not emerge from boxes; it emerges from relationships, from interdependence, from sacrifice.

This is why purely cultural life feels suffocating, and purely natural life feels chaotic. What we need is neither the jungle nor the machine—we need a garden. A space between chaos and order. A lived equilibrium. Eden was never about innocence; it was about balance.

People often call difference a disorder.
Anything that does not fit becomes pathological.

To think differently is exhausting. To live differently is painful. Society responds psychologically to every deviation. And so many retreat—not because they hate people, but because they cannot breathe among them.

Isolation is not always rejection.
Sometimes it is survival.

I do not reject others. I simply cannot pretend. Language itself betrays us—every sentence split into subject and object, “me” and “you,” reinforcing divisions that solipsism tries to dissolve. Perhaps that is why meaning is found not in definitions, but in symbols: the Ouroboros, the cycle of death and rebirth, creation through destruction.

Sacrifice is not optional.
Meaning demands it.

Happiness without suffering is shallow. Order without chaos is dead. Safety is not fulfillment. Capitalism teaches comfort; mythology teaches transformation. And transformation is always costly.

Strangely, if everything were achieved—wealth, intelligence, recognition—the dream would still end the same way: a simple life, close to the earth, close to the body, far from machines that mediate reality instead of touching it.

Perhaps that is the real paradox:
To prove yourself to the world, only to abandon it.

People chase globalization; I am more interested in tribes. Not tribes of blood, but of thought. Communities formed not by consumption, but by shared orientation toward meaning. The Smurfs were not naïve—they were anarcho-communists disguised as children’s mythology.

Absurdity is not life itself.
Absurdity is living without unity.

Science and technology are not the enemy. Capitalism is not evil by default. But when systems replace meaning, when safety replaces purpose, when living becomes mere survival—we lose something irretrievable.

Freedom is not found in movement alone.
It is found by orienting oneself toward something transcendent—and walking toward it, even without proof.

Maybe this life is a dream.
Maybe one day we wake up.

Until then, the only honest thing we can do is live as if meaning matters, suffer for what we believe, and recognize those rare moments when another mind seems to echo our own.

Those moments are not common.
They feel like miracles.

And perhaps that is enough reason to keep searching.