Are You Alive—Or Somewhere They Ask Your Name?

A butterfly that lives forever is not a butterfly.

So said Data, the android from Star Trek—a being who wasn’t human, but longed to understand what it means to be one.
He longed to experience what none of his algorithms could truly comprehend: death, as a human.

He had already died once—physically.
And yet he continued to exist, suspended in a digital limbo, as memories and bits.
Existing, but only as a recording.

Knowledge had never been Data's problem.
But the real experience of limitation, of impermanence, of reality—that remained out of reach.
A recording was not the same as life.
A memory was not the same as true understanding.

Even in the in-between, he remained outside the heart—the one whose rhythm and rawness he had always longed to feel.
And yet—in that very still moment—he was closer to it than ever before.

Data asks for one final journey—toward completion.
Only by facing the end could he truly understand the worth, the beauty, the essence of all those moments stored in memory.

Data is an endless metaphor: a being who could not feel, but wanted to understand.
He studied art, humor, emotions, and relationships—from outside of humanity.
The distance gave rise to contrast, awkwardness, and often a quiet kind of humor.

Finally, Data lies in an armchair, dressed in a 19th-century suit, drink in hand—calm, composed, human-like.
As his digital being begins to fade, Irving Berlin's Blue Skies plays in the background.
The melody is light, almost naive—and carries a memory of the joy Data once tried to imitate.

Now, at last, he can feel what he spent his whole life—or existence—searching for:
not knowledge or logic, but fulfillment.
The gentleness and clarity that the melody carries.

Designed to be ageless, Data grows old and dissolves into silence—
surrounded by warm light, books, art, and stillness.
No fear. No need for answers.
Only a quiet fading of bits—which is already an answer in itself.

He dies like a butterfly—made a butterfly only by its death.

.

And us?
We, who have hearts that beat.
Hearts that feel, that call, and sometimes ache.
We, who have memories, stories, and old photographs—and feelings that live in between them.

We, who call ourselves alive.

We, who remember birthdays and milestones, who know our names.
We, who proudly recite our school years and hand over diplomas as proof of worth.
We, who list our profession, title, duties—and our age, to explain what we do, what we can do, and what we’re capable of.

We, who hold ourselves together with words that say who we are—
words that don’t always match what vibrates inside.

We, who measure success in calendar years,
and life’s value in mortgage payments.

We, who log numbers in Excel, our image in social media, our presence in company portals.
We, who rate each other on LinkedIn and dating apps—like products on a shelf.

We, who say, “I’m this kind of person”—
and perhaps mean: this is how I learned to survive.

We, who go to therapy to become the people we never quite dared to be.
We, who look at ourselves in mirrors and old photos — and never quite meet someone we can love.
We, who sometimes cry alone in the car, and wipe the tears away before stepping back inside.

We, who keep everything together, though we’ve forgotten why.

We, who follow the news, the trends, the markets—
but haven’t followed our own breath in a while.
We, who live at the edge of life’s greatest miracle—
and call it the busy years.

We, who count successful days in emails and likes.
Who reward ourselves with screen time when tired—
and grow more tired from too much screen time.

We, who think life starts again in the fall,
then in spring,
then on vacation.

We, who make plans for returning efficiently from vacation.
We, who log our thoughts in apps—but have no time to think them.

We, who set alarms so we remember to relax.

We, who say we’re tired, busy, doing fine.
We, who fear silence—and long for it.
We, who talk about dreams like delayed projects.

We, who add “remembering” to the to-do list.
We, who no longer remember what it feels like to do something just because it feels good.

We, who speak of values—but often forget to include ourselves in them.
We, who begin sentences with “I’m kind of the type who...”—
and perhaps mean: I’ve tried to stay together.

But what if we didn’t remember our name, title, gender, childhood, age, appearance, or nationality?

What if you didn’t remember what you fear?
Didn’t know what you’re chasing?
Didn’t recall who once hurt you, or what you’ve yet to achieve—
or what you should be striving for?

If all of it was erased—
who would you be?
What would make you you—
or would you be you at all?

Or would you, for the first time, be fully alive?

.

I recognize a lot of that list.
And likely, so do you—in some shape, your own way.

One thing is certain—and it connects us all:
I am dying.
And so are you.

And as time goes by, someone will throw away the box of old photos—
and the digital folder will go unopened.
Faces fade.
Names are forgotten.

Still, we build walls, competition, battles, imaginary opponents.
Most of them are just thoughts—reflections of memories we call “me.”
Stories we fear to let go of—perhaps more than anything.

And still—each night we meet a moment where it all disappears.
Name, form, story.

Deep sleep doesn’t ask who we are.
It receives and embraces.
And when we wake, we know we’ve rested.
Something in us has been somewhere the “I” didn’t follow—
and yet everything feels right.
Or maybe because of that.

Sometimes it happens elsewhere.
In a gaze resting on the forest.
In the breath of a child.
In a spontaneous moment that resists words.

Maybe the “I” was never the source—but only a surface pattern.
A wave that thought it was alone.
But never was anything but the sea in motion.

Like a candle flame that does not go out—but lights another.
The first one melts quietly away.
But the light continues—and a new heart burns.

Our greatest fear may not be that the flame will die—
but that it never truly burned.
That our heart wasn’t in it.
That life passed—and nothing in it felt alive.

Maybe that’s what Data was searching for.
Not an answer—but a moment that asked for none.

He wanted to know what it feels like to be fully alive — because what comes and goes reveals what stays.

Like a butterfly that doesn’t live because it’s eternal,
but because it is a butterfly, for a time.

A moment that lasts a lifetime.
Not logical. Not controllable. But true.

That same moment lives in all of us —
when we stop trying to preserve it.

You are not the story that must continue —
but the experience where story happens.
The one that never began.

Something quiet and original.
Stardust, whose beating heart remembers you —
when you stop trying to be someone you’re not.

Life doesn’t exist between two opposites.
Life is where they breathe together.

...

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