The Abyss Within

I've always loved a line Friedrich Nietzsche wrote in *Beyond Good and Evil*:

"Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein." (And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.)

Many people interpret this as a solemn warning about the darkness of human nature—a reminder to be careful not to be swallowed by power, moral extremes, or your own obsession.

But I've always felt there's a gentler, secondary meaning. It's like a question: When we stand on the edge of the abyss, exploring the unknown and losing ourselves, could we also unexpectedly find a kind of freedom?

To me, this quote explains not just the danger, but also the flicker of light after getting lost—a fragile, sometimes shaky, but genuine freedom belonging to ordinary mortals.

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### The Unseen Lure of the Unknown

We begin exploring from the moment we are born. As children, we learn to walk by holding walls, falling down, and getting back up. As adults, we question heaven and earth, trying to figure out why the world is the way it is.

Exploration helps us grow, and it compels us to think. But as the days pass, our steps wander further, and our gaze is inevitably drawn to the dark places—those corners that are unknown, vague, and sometimes terrifying.

Darkness always feels like a veiled stranger. Out of curiosity, we want to lift the veil and peer in; out of fear, we want to shrink back.

But regardless, we still reach out, because it seems to hide something that could help us understand ourselves better. Yet, this path is never easy.

It’s dangerous, not because of the darkness itself, but because we might get lost inside and forget the way back—or, worse, forget who we are.

The unknown possesses a compelling magic that draws us near. Think of the scientist's obsession when gazing at a black hole, as if desperate to grasp the universe's secrets; or consider our feelings about death—both terrified of the eternal darkness and curious whether another world awaits. This is human nature; we harbor an adventurous impulse that pushes us toward the boundaries of the unseen. Sometimes this impulse feels like a thrill, accelerating the heartbeat; but sometimes, it’s a gamble—we walk in, unsure if we can return with our whole selves intact.

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### The Price of Progress: Losing Yourself on the Edge

Exploring the unknown is the starting point of human progress. Without scientists laboring night and day, without inventors repeatedly tearing down and rebuilding, without explorers stepping into unmapped wilderness, we wouldn't be where we are today. But have you ever considered that this path is never safe? Exploration, plainly put, is pushing yourself toward an unknown cliff. No one knows the destination; no one guarantees you won't fall and shatter. If your heart isn't strong enough, the dark abyss might truly consume you.

Take Percy Fawcett, an explorer ignited by curiosity. His life was spent chasing the unknown deep within the Amazon jungle. He mapped countless territories, traversed fever-ridden wilderness, and dreamed of finding a lost city called 'Z.' That dream burrowed into his heart like a faith. For it, he gave up a stable life and even time with his family. In 1925, he and his son walked into that jungle and never returned.

Imagine Fawcett standing at the jungle's edge, his feet sinking into the wet mud, the air filled with the faint chirping of insects and the rustling of leaves in the wind. He wasn't some towering hero; he was just an ordinary man, like you or me, who asked himself late at night, "What will tomorrow bring?" He just had a bit more persistence, a need to know what that darkness concealed. But he walked too far, so far that the way back blurred, and he slowly forgot who he was. His loss was not a defeat, but a solitary courage—exchanging an entire life for an answer that might forever remain silent. Perhaps, even in that abyss, he found a freedom that was uniquely his.

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### The Cycle of Power and the Mirror Test

To explore the unknown and confront the darkness undeniably requires courage. But have you ever thought that you must occasionally stop on that path, pull out a mirror, and check—is the reflection still the person who set out?

How many people in history set out carrying the banner of justice, only to become the very thing they once hated? Look at the Chinese dynasties: they always began by crying out for the people, overthrowing corruption, and promising a better world. But look at the end result. Chen Sheng and Wu Guang raised the rebellion at the end of the Qin Dynasty, leading to the glory of the Han Dynasty. Yet a few centuries later, the end of the Han Dynasty saw widespread misery again. The dazzling prosperity of the Tang Dynasty's Kaiyuan era still couldn't escape the dust of the An Lushan Rebellion. In the end, the collapse of every dynasty often looked like it had become the very shadow it originally fought against.

Is this a cycle? Like the old saying, "Wealth does not pass three generations?" I sometimes think so. But then again, maybe this isn't simply getting lost, but humanity stumbling forward—using exploration and sacrifice to eliminate what is no longer suitable, in exchange for a little more hope closer to freedom.

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### The Illusion of Safety vs. The Flexibility of Truth

"People are fundamentally good," we hear this often. But I always feel that people are not purely good or evil at the beginning; both sides are hidden within the heart—one side is a gentle smile, the other is a shadow in the dark. At birth, we are clean as a blank slate; when we smile, our eyes are bright, and everyone sees a good little person.

But life won't let that paper stay blank. On the road of exploration, the environment, experiences, and even the unavoidable pain, sweep past like the wind, drawing out either the good or the evil side. And we often can't control what it becomes. For instance, a soldier in war might have been a boy who helped his mother carry water yesterday, but today he must hold a gun and learn to harden his heart in the smoke. The environment pushed him to an extreme, but is the warm person he once was still inside?

Nietzsche also said: "Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not himself become a monster." This phrase hits home, chilling you to the core. We can all encounter such extremes—whether it's war or a life-and-death struggle—and in that moment, can we still cling to a bit of rationality and preserve our original self? Or, can we find a path to freedom within the darkness?

"Ugh, exploring the unknown sounds quite dangerous. Maybe I should just hide, close the door, and avoid all that messy stuff." Have you ever had that thought? But consider this: if you never explore, you can only stand still, watching time run forward, others move ahead, while you circle in the same place. Over time, you'll find that you haven't become safer, but fallen behind—progress never waits patiently for you.

Actually, exploration itself isn't so terrifying; what's terrifying is how we view it. When a person stubbornly clings to a single "only truth," they are prone to veer off course, becoming closed-off and rigid. Take religious fanatics, who speak of salvation but use dogma to stifle others; or extreme political zealots, who shout about liberating the world but ultimately become a new kind of chain. Is this trouble caused by exploration? No. It's because they forgot that true exploration should be about opening your heart to find more possibilities, not locking yourself into one answer. Perhaps only by letting go of this obsession can we touch the edge of freedom.

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### The Wisdom of Imperfection

So, try to open your heart a little more. Don't be too quickly tethered by extreme ideas. The world isn't a black-and-white exam paper where one answer is uniquely correct; it's more like a vast ocean, hiding countless possibilities waiting for you to discover.

This isn't about blindly believing anything. It’s like exercise, slowly learning to view the world with flexibility—what you believe to be right today can be reconsidered tomorrow; the principles others preach can be met with an extra question: "Why?" When you can recognize that the abyss is at your feet, you are already more sober than many. It's like standing on a cliff edge: you find you have an extra choice—step into the darkness to see what it truly hides, or take a slight leap and find a path that belongs to you. Whichever you choose, you are moving closer to freedom.

Each of us will collide with our own abyss—it might be tears late at night, the emptiness after loss, or the confusion of suddenly losing direction. These things follow us like shadows; you can't avoid them, and you don't need to. Try to embrace them. Perhaps you'll find that exploration won't truly lose you or knock you down. Instead, it will allow you to see what is hidden in the dark.

When you start to understand it, those setbacks, those pains, are no longer just the abyss, but become part of you. You'll slowly feel that you have a little more freedom than others—not because you are invincible, but because you are no longer afraid of the unknown, and you are no longer trapped by your own thoughts. You become the person who can walk into the abyss and walk back out, carrying both scars and light.

Human perfection, perhaps, is hidden in these flaws; human freedom, perhaps, is these endless possibilities. This is the most authentic wisdom of being alive.

Nietzsche said: "When you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."

I'd like to add one more line: **When the abyss gazes at you, freedom is quietly waiting for you, too.**