Plato once cried out,
that emotions arise from the body more than the mind.
Is it because we were born with an animal nature?
Yet, we were created nobler and higher than the beasts.
My sense of the universe is absent,
as if I exist only in isolation within myself.
I see the world without good or evil.
I am without feelings, like an ocean without water.
I want to know who I am.
I said it, and I took it from the mouths of many before me:
Love… I do not know what it is.
I do not know what it means, nor why it exists.
Thus I was born a human, yet stripped of the meaning of humanity.
Silas lay down, making the earth his bed,
the sky his ceiling, the forest his blanket,
the moon his lamp, and the stars his wandering thoughts.
Sleep began to flood his eyes,
weighing them down until they finally surrendered.
Dreams pulled his soul into their depths.
He found himself drifting into memories
he prayed every day to forget—
memories that destroyed him, reducing him to ashes.
Then Silas awoke, his face void of expression.
In a calm voice, he murmured,
"That must be the hundred-thousandth time."
He returned to reading his book,
The Passions of the Soul,
written by René Descartes.
Since childhood, Silas had been fascinated with philosophy and existence.
He delved into them so deeply that they began shaping his life.
His simple conversations were never truly simple.
His dialogues were heavy, complex,
burdensome to the ears of those who listened.
People turned away from him,
for he was difficult to understand.
And so his emotions began to fade—
not because he willed it,
but because others despised his emotions.
How many times did he love, only to be betrayed?
How many times did he die inside, without ever having lived?
Silas returned home.
A home that had become ruin.
From a distance, one could see the darkness within.
It filled any visitor with dread and unease.
Not because it was the lair of a murderer or a villain,
but because it belonged to a man
whose only crime was that he loved.
He entered his room, thick with dust,
its weight pressing down on him along with his memories.
After some time, he left again and walked to the library.
The librarian saw him after a long absence
and greeted him with joy:
"You worried me, Silas. How have you been?"
Silas replied, "I'm fine. I came to return this book.
I've finished it. Thank you for lending it to me, sir."
The librarian assured him that returning the book was no trouble,
and offered him another if he wished.
Silas thanked him and walked toward the shelves.
As he searched, a young man approached.
"Excuse me… what's your name?" the youth asked.
"Silas," he replied indifferently.
The boy smiled. "I love books too.
Could you recommend one for me?"
Silas answered,
"Books are like fate.
You do not choose them—they choose you.
So pick one yourself, and let your desire guide you."
The boy paused, then said softly,
"I admire your philosophy.
I wish to learn more about it."
Silas, now gazing at a new book in his hands, replied:
"When you hear the word 'philosophy,'
you may think of depth and wisdom.
But it is not so.
It is simpler than existence,
yet more complex than life itself.
If you wish to understand it,
then reflect on your own life.
Keep the past in the past.
Whatever happens to you is your fate—
do not let your past dominate your present or your future."
The boy smiled, understanding.
He thanked Silas for the advice.
Silas picked up the book
and prepared to leave the library,
to once again walk into the hell of reality,
after a fleeting taste of heaven within the pages.