By: Dr. Adnan Bozan

When we attempt to rethink the birth of the human being—not merely as a biological event, but as an interwoven cosmic occurrence—we are confronted with a truth more turbulent than all ready-made narratives: humanity was not born from harmony, but from a rupture. From a rare moment in which the severity of the first dry land, after the retreat of water, met the earliest penetration of light toward a surface that had not yet settled into meaning.

There, in that mysterious instant, the earth had not yet chosen its final form, nor had the sky settled into its abundance or restraint. The land was an open wound in the body of the ocean, and light did not appear as pure grace, but as a force of intrusion. From this tension, from this opposition between revelation and containment, the human being was formed.

It can be said that the human was not created from tranquility, but from an original conflict between two elements: light as disclosure, and moist soil as resistance. Light, in its essence, is not merely radiation; it is primordial consciousness, the possibility of vision, and the beginning of all perception. Moisture, on the other hand, is the earth’s primitive memory—the remnants of the first chaos, where things had not yet differentiated, and everything still remained capable of becoming something else.

From this perspective, “spirit” is no longer a transcendent, separate entity, but rather the trace of light as it collides with matter. What we call spirit is nothing but that internal vibration that occurs when matter attempts to understand itself through illumination. The body, meanwhile, is not stability; it is a continuous retention of the anxiety of clay—its moisture, its hesitation between formation and dissolution.

For this reason, human nature is not fixed, nor can it ever be. The human being carries within it that original contradiction: the openness of light and the closure of clay. At every moment, it is recreated—not merely because it changes, but because it was never complete to begin with. Every thought that arises, every feeling that passes through it, is nothing but a reconfiguration of that ancient equation between light and moisture.

From here emerges the disparity among human beings. Not merely because they differ socially or culturally, but because each one represents a distinct configuration of that primordial tension. There are those in whom light prevails, inclining them toward clarity, vision, and what we call “good.” And there are those burdened by the moisture of clay, who drift toward obscurity, ambiguity, and what we call “evil.” Yet the deeper truth is that this division itself is only partial illusion, for each human being carries both within a single moment, within a single soul.

Good and evil, then, are not external forces struggling over humanity, but different expressions of its unfinished condition. Good is when light succeeds in organizing chaos; evil is when chaos returns to engulf the light. Between these two poles, human beings exist in a constant state of fluctuation, never settling into permanence, because they were never created to be stable.

Human anxiety, its instability, and its contradictions are not accidental flaws, but its very essence. The human being is not a creature fallen from a prior perfection, but one born from continuous deficiency. Thus, it never ceases to search, never stops transforming, and can never become a final version of itself.

Ultimately, the human being is neither a child of the earth alone nor of the sky alone, but the boundary between them; that being born from a moment of collision, and one that will forever carry the echo of that moment within it.

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