Sometimes, I feel as though life is like a sleeping giant. From the moment we open our eyes to the moment we close them, we move through existence in a state of wakefulness, yet we are often unaware of the vast mystery that surrounds us. And then comes the unsettling thought: when I die, will I ever have the chance to open my eyes again? The idea of permanent non-existence is terrifying. But then, I consider the alternative—if life were an endless cycle, an eternal return—would that not be equally frightening?
This dual fear—the terror of finiteness and the horror of infinity—touches upon one of humanity’s deepest existential dilemmas. To exist is to be caught between two extremes: the brevity of an individual life and the inconceivable vastness of eternity. How, then, do we find meaning in this tension? Let us explore this question through the lenses of philosophy, science, and personal reflection.
Time is the invisible current that carries us forward, yet our understanding of it is limited. Neuroscientists suggest that the human brain is fundamentally incapable of grasping eternity. We experience time as a linear sequence—one moment after another—never able to step outside of it.
In a sense, consciousness is like a beam of light, illuminating only a fraction of a vast and endless river. We can never fully comprehend the totality of time; we can only exist within its flow. And yet, perhaps this limitation is a gift. If life stretched on infinitely, would any moment still hold meaning? The beauty of an ephemeral sunrise, the weight of a single spoken word—these are precious because they are fleeting. In this way, mortality does not diminish the value of life; it enhances it.
Jean-Paul Sartre famously declared, "Existence precedes essence." In other words, we are not born with a predetermined purpose; instead, we define ourselves through our actions. The fear of death, then, is not merely a fear of ceasing to exist—it is the fear that we may never truly live.
Yet, there is a paradoxical liberation in this realization. If our time is finite, then every choice matters. Like an artist confronting a blank canvas, we must decide what to create. The inevitability of an ending does not render the story meaningless—rather, it gives the story its shape. If we embrace this perspective, fear can transform into agency, and despair into creativity.
Western existentialism often focuses on the individual’s struggle for meaning, but Eastern traditions offer another path—one that does not seek to conquer fear, but to dissolve it.
Buddhism teaches the concept of anatta—the notion that the self is an illusion. We cling to the idea of a permanent, continuous “I,” and yet, our identity is constantly shifting. If we let go of this attachment, the fear of death begins to lose its grip.
Imagine a wave in the ocean. It rises, moves forward, and then disappears—but has it truly ceased to exist? Or has it simply returned to the greater whole? Perhaps our lives are no different. Zhuangzi’s famous dream of the butterfly questions whether he is a man dreaming he is a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he is a man. What if the boundary between wakefulness and sleep, life and death, is not as rigid as we assume?
Modern physics suggests that reality is not as fixed as it appears. The observer plays an integral role in shaping what is observed. In this light, consciousness is not merely a passive witness to existence—it is an active participant.
This brings me back to the sleeping giant. If existence itself requires consciousness to illuminate it, then each of us, in our small way, becomes a window through which the universe perceives itself. This idea challenges the nihilistic claim that nothing matters. If the very act of observing can influence reality, then our awareness—however fleeting—carries significance.
Nihilism whispers, “Nothing matters.” But there is another way to look at it: if nothing has inherent meaning, then we are free to create our own. We do not need the universe to hand us purpose; we can carve it out ourselves.
One of the most effective ways to counter existential dread is to root ourselves in the present moment. When you eat, truly taste your food. When you walk, feel the ground beneath your feet. These simple acts, done with awareness, tether us to life. They remind us that meaning is not found in grand abstractions but in the immediacy of experience.
The poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote, "Life is not elsewhere. Life is here, now, complete in itself." The search for meaning is not about choosing between finiteness and infiniteness—it is about embracing both. To cherish the morning dew precisely because it vanishes, and to find peace in the endless expanse of the night sky. This tension, rather than being a source of fear, can become the very essence of what makes life beautiful.
In the end, the sleeping giant is not just life—it is us. And perhaps awakening is not about answering all of life’s questions, but about learning to live within them.