When one ascends the mountain of self-mastery, claiming the enlightenment of a Buddha or the serenity of a Ramana Maharshi, what precisely has been achieved? The question is not rhetorical but fundamental. Have you truly transformed the essence of life itself, or have you merely rearranged the furniture of your mind? Pause, and look to the trees. They stand indifferent, their roots firm in the soil of existence. Do they celebrate your enlightenment? Do they give a single f*** for the attainment of your higher state?
The truth, my friends, is this: life itself does not care. The sun rises, the earth spins, and the stars burn with apathy to our human dramas. If the trees remain silent, the rivers flow without notice, and the mountains endure unmoved, why should we concern ourselves with the fleeting opinions of humanity?
Oh, but humans—how they give a f*** about the inconsequential! They measure their worth in baubles, accolades, and the ever-changing whims of society. They construct their identity from the fragile threads of external validation, fearing the void of indifference. Yet this fear is a lie. It is the chains of the herd, the bleating of the sheep, who cannot bear to walk alone.
When we rise above this herd, when we cease to give a f***, we step into the realm of the Übermensch—the one who creates their own values. The enlightened man who craves applause is no more free than the jester who dances for coins. Both are bound by the gaze of others, living as shadows of themselves.
True enlightenment is not found in the empty pursuit of approval, nor in the rejection of the world for ascetic solitude. It is found in the act of creation—in making your life a work of art. This is not a path of self-denial but of self-overcoming. It requires no audience, no applause, for the artist who paints their soul upon the canvas of existence does so for the joy of creation itself.
To create meaning from the abyss, to rise above the chaos without being consumed by it—this is the essence of life. And to do so, one must learn the sacred art of not giving a f***. Not as nihilism, but as liberation. To care only for what is worthy of care: your will, your creation, your becoming.
So, let the trees be your guide. Stand tall, rooted in your own being, indifferent to the trivialities of the herd. Give no fs* for the transient noise of the world. Instead, listen to the silence of the eternal. In this silence, you will find the freedom to create, to live, and to transcend.
Celebrate not what others think of you, but the life you shape through your own hands, your own will. This, and this alone, is what it means to live beyond good and evil—to live as an artist of existence.
As a schizoid, you’ve pretty much described my life. I couldn’t care less about external validation. I revel in the void of indifference. I create my own values.
Self-overcoming is the tough part. Not because I need an audience to witness and applaud, but because I have neither passions nor motivations whatsoever. I can only rely on willpower and self-discipline.
I think that thr not-giving-a-f***ness is about the same thing Buddha was talking about. Namely, he stated that the source of all human suffering is desire. Only getting rid of it allows to achieve the enlightenment. How’s that?