By Dr. Adnan Bozan

What I write—and what you, dear visitor, are reading—is neither a personal narrative nor passing thoughts. It is a manifestation of consciousness embodied in language, reading itself through the Other. The titles you glimpse in passing are not mere signposts, but echoes of my self reflected in the mirror of existence: shy attempts to understand what defies understanding—or at the very least, to bestow meaning upon what appears to be meaningless.

I do not write because I possess answers, but because I am in search of questions. I do not write because I own the truth, but because the truth itself writes me in the form of a perpetual question. Writing is not a tool of expression—it is the being that expresses itself through me. Hence, my philosophy in life is not a stance toward the world, but an understanding of myself as a being constituted through its relationship with the world, not prior to it.

I write, therefore I exist... not to affirm my existence, but to question it.

Philosophers before me have spoken of the human being as a mind, a thinking entity, a rational animal, a being-toward-death, or a free subject. But I perceive—and I am conscious of perceiving—that the human is language reading itself in the mirror of time and space. Every attempt to understand the world is, in truth, an attempt to understand the self through its own fragmentations within that world.

Existence is not something external to us; it is the reflection of our consciousness upon the fabric of time. The world does not precede the self, nor does the self precede the world—they are born together when the question is born. I do not precede my writing; I am born in the moment of the text, just as meaning is born in the moment of interpretation.

I do not think about life—I live it as an idea.

My philosophical vision reverses the equation: the idea does not emerge from the human; rather, the human emerges from the idea. We do not possess ideas; we exist within them. Hence, my suffering, my questioning, my doubts—these are not symptoms of my existence, but its living form. Pain is not a mere incident—it is the infrastructure of consciousness, for it gives birth to the question, and the question is the essence of the human.

The human: the being that reads itself in the void.

We do not search for truth except because we have been written upon a blank page called existence. And the void is not the opposite of life—it is its condition. Without the void, fullness has no meaning. Thus, all my writing is but an attempt to understand: why have we been written at all? And why is this cosmic text not translatable into a single meaning, but into an infinity of interpretations?

This vision—if you wish to call it that—is not a complete philosophy. It is an open wound in the mind that refuses to be stitched. It is the cry of the self in the face of nothingness, and the whisper of meaning in the ear of mystery.

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