WHAT IS IT THAT TRULY MAKES US IMMORTAL?
When someone dies, it is always a tragedy, but is it possible that sometimes we confuse the feeling of sadness and pain with the feeling of missing that someone? After some time has passed, could that pain and sadness actually come from the sense of absence we feel for what we have “lost”? Most of the time, we associate this feeling of missing someone with the physical and tangible absence of what is no longer here.
But is it really gone?
From a physical point of view, we are made of energy, and therefore, when we die, we don’t truly disappear, because that energy is simply redistributed. Meanwhile, from an emotional point of view, and regarding the absence of what we have “lost,” we certainly cannot say that it dies; for example, according to Ugo Foscolo, art — through its beauty — is the one thing that makes us immortal.
But is it really the only thing?
I believe it is possible that people themselves are what truly make us immortal, because even art, if seen by no one, cannot be passed on or remembered. So is it possible that it is actually human beings who make us immortal? When a person dies, they are no longer visible, but they survive and continue to exist in the memories of others, because in the end, one can only be immortal by being remembered. When I think of someone, my memory alone keeps them alive.
But then, what is life? How can we be sure that it is what we commonly think it is?
In the end, when we talk about immortality, I believe we always speak of it with a limit. The more generations pass, the more we are forgotten; even art and everything tangible will eventually be lost. Perhaps it is precisely the immortality of the soul promised by religion that comforts us, that eases the fear we have of suffering, of disappearing, of being insignificant, of being nothing. We want to feel important, because thinking that we will eventually vanish takes away some of the desire and meaning of living. And maybe this is exactly why we still haven’t been able to give a definitive answer to the question about the meaning of our existence. But perhaps that answer does exist — we simply cannot accept it, because on one hand it can be interpreted as proof of our insignificance, and it makes us realize that we do not control anything; we are merely part of the life cycle of the universe, the result of a series of circumstances and events that aligned to allow the development of our species.
The answer to the meaning of our existence, based on what has been said, might be that perhaps there is no meaning at all. But if there truly isn’t one, what is the reason for that? Is it because we are supposed to create that meaning ourselves? Or does asking these questions lead us through a labyrinth of suppositions that ultimately turns out to be a circle, where asking them becomes pointless because we will never find an exit?
05/2026 NIMA
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