"This is excellent" - John Maxwell

We are blind fools on a treasure hunt, unaware that we have blinded ourselves. Each of us, convinced that we know the path to the treasure, charge forward in search of something we cannot see. Yet, as the journey unfolds, we find ourselves lost and helpless. Rather than mustering the courage to remove our blindfolds, we drop to our knees and crawl, tracing the footsteps of those before us. We crawl and crawl, mustering every ounce of our strength, only to find ourselves exactly where we started—except now we are exhausted and nearing death.

The Death of Ivan Ilyich tells the story of such a fool—except he is not just any fool but a socially respected magistrate facing death. Struck by a sudden illness, he finds his career cut short—much to the dismay, or perhaps excitement, of his family and friends. Ilyich lived his entire life in pursuit of—and attaining—success. Prestigious universities, esteemed social circles, lucrative judicial positions, a wife of high social standing—his life was the picture of success in Russian society. Yet, upon his death, his so-called friends quietly rejoice at his misfortune, scheming to take his position and feeling relief that they themselves have been spared. His wife, rather than mourning, busies herself with maximizing the financial gain from her husband's death. Such was the end of Ivan Ilyich—a man deemed successful by the standards of society.

Only on his deathbed does he dare to remove his blindfold: "'Can it be that I have not lived as one ought?' suddenly came into his head. 'But how not so, when I've done everything as it should be done?'" Ivan had lived exactly as society dictated, only to find himself left with nothing but regret and the realization that he had never truly lived at all.

Within fifty pages, Tolstoy exposes the duality of human existence—biological and symbolic—and the consequences of this contradiction. Biologically, we are confined to mortality; death is inevitable. Yet symbolically, we strive to create meaning and value, seeking immortality through legacy, achievement, and recognition. This paradox instills in us an existential anxiety: how do we reconcile our finite existence with our infinite desire for meaning? Given this tension, humans have two choices: to explore and embrace the imminence of death or to drown in man-made illusions that distract us from it.

The terror of death, when left unchecked, can paralyze us into nihilism and despair. But because confronting death directly threatens our symbolic longing for immortality, most of us choose instead to submit to societal illusions. These illusions numb our need for meaning. By attaching ourselves to cultural ideals, norms, and values, we shield ourselves from the burden of individual insignificance. Meaning is easily found when one models oneself after those who came before. A well-trodden path—one that demands conformity, erases individuality, and promises the comfort of belonging—offers an easy escape from the terror of self-reflection.

Fulfilling his role as a cog in the machine of society, Ivan numbs himself to the awareness of death. Even as his symptoms worsen, rather than cherishing his remaining time with family, he buries himself in work. He fears the inevitable, so he tranquilizes himself with the mundane. If he loses himself in routine, he will have no time to think about death or question the life he has lived. In conformity, there is comfort; in introspection, there is inquietude.

When Ivan becomes too ill to work, doctors give him opiates to dull the physical pain. Yet long before this, society had already drugged him with a more potent opiate: pre-defined social roles designed to suppress the psychological pain of his mortality. Just as religion is often called "the opiate of the masses"—providing hope for eternal life, a moral structure, and a purpose—culture, too, serves as an opiate, offering a script to follow and the illusion of meaning.

The search for meaning is universal. We are not born blind; rather, we choose to put on the blindfold when introspection and reality become too difficult to face. And this blindness is not merely a passive state—it is actively reinforced by a society that fears the truth. Adults, long conditioned by these illusions, cling to them not just for themselves but for future generations. To admit the truth—that their lives have been lived under false pretenses—would be unbearable. And so, the blindfold is passed down, not by force, but by fear.

Thus, society becomes the collective manifestation of humanity’s search for meaning—a highway to 'heaven' that promises direction but discourages detours.

Many claim to have asked themselves, What is the meaning of life? But too often, the question is abandoned as quickly as it is raised, with society offering prepackaged answers: “To enjoy myself,” “To help others,” “To glorify God,” or even, “Who cares?” Likewise, few genuinely accept the inevitability of death—at least, not beyond a passing thought. To sit with the knowledge of one’s mortality, to truly absorb it, is deeply unsettling. And so, most avoid it, instead slipping into the comfort of routine, following the path set before them without question.

I am not condemning the nuclear family, religion, or hedonistic lifestyles. If these are the conclusions one arrives at through genuine introspection, then I have no right to judge them. However, for many, these are not choices but mandates—prepackaged blueprints deemed the "right" way to live.

Some never question the blueprint, while others break free only to find themselves staring into the abyss of nihilism—a stage where all meaning seems unattainable. Yet nihilism is not an endpoint; it is a necessary phase of growth. True meaning cannot be inherited from another’s blueprint, but neither can it be created without first facing the void. The only way forward is through. And perhaps unrestrained creative expression is the path. To create without constraint, without seeking external validation, is to carve meaning from the void. I write not to find answers but to engage with the questions—to explore my own fears and desires. Art is not the destination; it is the journey, the tool that forces us to confront what we cannot easily define. Even as I write this essay, I wonder if I too have numbed myself with illusions of meaning.

"He sought his former accustomed fear of death and did not find it. 'Where is it? What death?' There was no fear because there was no death. In place of death there was light."

Sooner or later, we will all be forced to confront the lives we have lived. The only question is whether we will remove the blindfold ourselves or wait for death to rip it away.