Because he is the one who definitively awakens from human fictions, from its deepest and most recent lies. From the most obtuse and the most engaging. That even when he was still asleep, he suspected that false world. He already had an instinct, a nose for the truth. And when he woke up, he saw that he would never be able to return, that it was a path of no return. That nothing is everything. That there is the essence and the superficial. The static and the statistical. The aesthetic and the meaning. He saw that no side is more right. That the politician is like the Architect. That Agent Smiths are not just white men with sunglasses and suits. That he was just another brick in the great wall of power. That when he fell into the deep well, he stopped being just another pile of belief. And that he did not choose the red pill. Just another metaphor. He did not choose the path that had always haunted him, that he had always followed. The only path to truth, to the only philosophy. From the desert of reality. From the emptiness of solitude. From every body that is spirit. That has the flame of an absolute and infinite desire. That a fact is no more beautiful than raw. And that after stripping away all alienation, the most important thing remains: to live. Not for others, but first for oneself. Not for a society, even if it continues to be so dependent, if we never stop being united. Not for a fake ideal. And even if they continue to be just as deaf, blind and mute, to continue fighting against their demons (their myths). And even knowing that there will be no prizes, nor consolation, that there is no greater victory than to remain true to what is most important. To continue carrying the torch of human evolution, even without a collective with which to share this responsibility. Of a true vocation. A calling that cannot be avoided, that cannot be ignored and answered. The calling that calls at every moment in which one lives. The most constant calling of existence.
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