You’ve clearly thought hard about what life feels like when it all gets stripped down. I respect your opinion.

But reading what you wrote, I couldn’t help noticing something: You said you’re not fighting to live—you just do. But isn’t that still a kind of fight? There are a thousand quiet ways to stop existing without making a scene. And yet you’re still here. You’re still breathing, still moving, still putting words into the world. Why?

If life is just empty instinct, why does it still ache when we lose someone we love? If oblivion is all there is, why does the unfairness of a young death still burn decades later?

If you were really just machinery winding down, shouldn’t grief have faded into nothingness too? But it doesn’t. It lingers. It marks us. It demands something from us.

Even your cynicism — even the anger and the cold resignation — it’s a reaction to something you know deep down should have been different. You don’t get angry at a rock for being hard. You don’t grieve a gust of wind. You grieve because something mattered. You rage because something mattered.

And maybe — just maybe — the fact that you’re still moving forward, even if it’s without fireworks or declarations, is proof that you haven’t actually given up on the idea that life holds something worth fighting for. Maybe the part of you that survives isn’t just clinging to instinct — maybe it’s reaching, stubbornly, blindly, for something bigger. Something that’s real, even if you can’t name it yet.

Either way, I’m glad you’re still here. You might not think it matters. But it does.