A Philosophical Exploration of Existence

I sit here, not claiming answers, but unraveling questions. Questions that gnaw, questions that shape, questions that don’t allow you to sleep at night but awaken something in you — something raw, something human. My thoughts have been a labyrinth, one where Dostoevsky, Sartre, Camus, and Kierkegaard walk beside me, whispering truths and contradictions. Yet, the heart of it all circles back to a single question:

What grounds us? What makes us human? And what does this grounding even mean?

The Concept of Grounding

“What grounds us is what makes us human.”

This thought lingers, like a melody I can’t shake off. But what does it mean? To be grounded could be interpreted as a tethering, a connection to something deeper. Is it morality, the voice of conscience that compels us toward the “right” as defined by society? Is it simply the sum of our choices, our actions creating meaning in a void?

Yet, morality feels fragile -shaped by culture, era, and circumstance. And if it’s all subjective, does that mean grounding is a social construct? If so, how can it be universal, something that defines all of humanity? This is where the concept begins to unravel. Grounding must be something intrinsic, not merely dictated by external forces.

Could it be God, then? For many, it is comforting to believe that a divine presence grounds us, gives meaning to the chaos. But what of the agnostic, the atheist? Are they unmoored, living without anchor? Does life for them mean everything is permitted? If so, believers might seem like fools chasing illusions. And yet, those illusions provide structure, peace, and purpose.

So, we are left with a question both haunting and liberating: If there is no universal grounding, then what grounds us individually?

Dostoevsky’s Reverberations

Dostoevsky doesn’t tell you outright. He never does. Instead, he tangles you in the consequences of your own thoughts. His characters, his worlds — they are forests with no trails. Reading Notes from Underground or White Nights, I feel it: he doesn’t proclaim there is no God, nor does he try to convince you there is. What he does is make you realize.

Every thought, every action — a chain of consequences. That’s the weight Dostoevsky leaves you with. But what grounds us in this maze of consequences? Is it our conscience — a moral compass designed by society? But then, isn’t that just confirmation bias? What if grounding isn’t morality? What if there is no “right” or “wrong”? Existence is a gradient, a spectrum without absolutes.

Could it be God? Perhaps. For believers, it is comforting. But for the agnostic, the atheist? Then, does it mean that nothing is grounded, and everything is permitted? If so, belief becomes foolishness, doesn’t it? Is this what Nietzsche meant when he declared, “God is dead, and we have killed him”?

And yet, Dostoevsky doesn’t hand you answers. He leaves you with a question mark, and perhaps, that is his answer: you decide.

Camus and the Absurd

Then there is Camus, who takes that question mark and doesn’t erase it — he redefines it. He begins with the bluntest of truths: “There is only one serious philosophical question, and that is suicide.”

Camus doesn’t shy away. He stares the absurd in the eye and tells us that life has no inherent meaning. And yet, his brilliance lies in his rebellion against this very fact. If the universe is indifferent, then resist it. Find joy in the struggle, like Sisyphus rolling his rock endlessly uphill.

But does Camus answer my question? What grounds us? He sidesteps it, reframes it: grounding isn’t about finding meaning — it’s about rebellion against the lack of it. Live, despite. Fight, despite. Exist, despite. It’s beautiful, but does it satisfy? Not entirely.

Kierkegaard and the Leap of Faith

Then Kierkegaard walks in, quiet and reflective, and offers another path: faith. Not faith as blind dogma, but as a leap — a surrender to the unknowable. Kierkegaard’s answer to grounding is both terrifying and intimate: a relationship with a higher self.

But here, I hesitate and say — “There is no self, yet it is I that ground myself.” How do I reconcile this with Kierkegaard? If grounding means tethering myself to a higher power, what happens when that power is absent, or worse, when it is me? Kierkegaard points to a higher plane, but like Dostoevsky, leaves room for the struggle.

Sartre: Existence Precedes Essence

And then there’s Sartre, who pulls me back to the present, back to myself. His words, “existence precedes essence,” hit like a truth I’ve always known but never articulated.

In my view, our actions, our choices — that is what grounds us. If there is a concept of God, then it lies in what we do, not in what is. God, if it exists, is something we define. But I don’t fully subscribe to that. No, I ground myself. Not because I am greater, but because I must. “There is no self, yet it is I that ground myself.”

This isn’t Sartre’s radical freedom in its purest form — it’s messier, more hesitant. Sartre might say I am hedging, that I must take full ownership of my existence without ambiguity. But can we ever fully own ourselves? Or are we perpetually caught between what we want to be and what we are?

What Grounds Us, Then?

Perhaps it is rebellion, as Camus says. Perhaps it is faith, as Kierkegaard suggests. Perhaps it is the choices we make, as Sartre insists. Or perhaps, it is something else entirely.

But here is where I stand today: I ground myself. Not because I am certain, but because certainty is a luxury I cannot afford. There is no essence, no inherent meaning waiting to be discovered. And yet, in this absence, there is freedom.

So what grounds us? Perhaps the act of questioning itself. Perhaps the willingness to wrestle with contradictions, to live without absolutes, to embrace the absurd.

It is debatable, yes. But maybe that’s the point.

I am yet to think more on this but this is where I stand as of now with my current level of knowledge………