Alexander The Great, had Aristotle to teach him, you had teachers coercing you into memorization to fake your education.

Imagine your mind as an Operating System, you are far behind on updates, and you don’t have an Admin to run them.

You will need adventure that opens your mind, which is to say hiking, and narrated books, so that you can listen and more importantly re-listen to them.

You are not in any danger, but please be aware, that in corrupt nations, education is denied on purpose, to make a vicious and desperate soldier.

You need you backpack, get one soon, get a tent as well, the cheap ones are fine, they are just heavy, but it is a good start.

Your narrated books, must be first and foremost about Adventure, and then Philosophy, but start with overviews of philosophy first.

Greeks are just too unusual, and will seem boring at first, so you want books that skim over them, and avoid religion.

You want modern philosophy, but before everyone could say anything, and pretend that it is important by just buying a Bestseller spot.

You are looking for the Noble Thinkers, not the Changelings, the Changelings will destroy themselves by the end of the book, wasting your time.

They don’t understand what they are doing, so they won’t know, when they contradict themselves, and as a result waste your time.

It is a terrible thing when you spend a couple of days with a thinker, and you realize he thought he was talking about the opposite.

He didn’t perceive the suffering, he just wanted to be a hero, and in the final chapter he goes ahead with his regrets and wishing.

Which point in the opposite direction of all his research, showing that he didn’t understand anything.

So, get to the modern, but no so modern that you may as well be reading, the works of your fake teacher’s incompetent parents.

---

But philosophy is second, because you must read adventure books, about all the interesting places and expeditions.

No adventure great or small, lacks in profound wisdom.

If you don’t know where to start, stat with Mt. Everest, listen about Australia, and then American trails, Appalachian, Pacific Crest, and Continental Divide.

If you do get a tent, set it up tonight in the living room, play some nature sounds, and listen to your first books.

---

This will begin filling the gaps, that prevent you from seeing the roads ahead, but you should also know who you are, or what you are.

What you are is an infinitely capable mind, the way you learned language and numbers shows how powerful you are.

You learn in steps, you first create a foundation, and then you step on it, and built a step, and a step on top, and so on.

Learning letters and words is very mechanical though, so it shows you that you are a genius, but it does not show you greatness.

The crossing of a step, or moving up to a new plateau as I used to call it, is an act of transcendence, something nature didn’t intend.

With amino acids floating in space, emergence of life is a matter of time.

But emergence of thoughts and feelings, science, and transcendence, is much bigger.

So big in fact, that it sadly, may be rare, despite life everywhere.

---

You are precious contributor to culture, and your ineffective education, is such a disgrace, that you must think of it as a personal attack.

You need your books right now, knowledge was taken from you, it is like being hurt.

Start listening to adventure books tonight, move aside all the things that are in your way, this is important medicine.

---

What follows is a glimpse of a unique life, showing, how our minds develop, and how we are moved to become real teachers.

---

You have begun your life like many others.

Taught to be polite, to do well, to follow. You learned early how to smile when expected, how to nod, how to stay quiet. There were rules you didn't question, stories you accepted, and dreams you inherited before you even knew they were being handed to you.

But even then, you were already different.

You saw things others didn’t stop to see. The way the sky turns gold for only a few minutes before dusk. The quiet sadness in a friend’s joke. The way your heart beat when you read a sentence that seemed written just for you. That was your beginning—when something inside whispered: There is more.

And so the philosopher in you stirred.

At first, it was only questions: Why do I believe this? Why do they tell me this is right? Why does everyone seem so sure, and yet so unsure? You began to look around not just with eyes, but with awareness. You noticed the disconnect between people’s words and their hearts. You started to read more—not to be smarter, but to find something real. Something that rang true.

Then you began to walk. Long walks. Hikes alone, with wind in your ears and silence under your feet. And slowly, your own voice became clearer. You wrote what you thought. You erased it. You cried over pages, and laughed in the middle of nowhere. Your mind began to stretch, not just to hold information—but to hold contradiction, to hold beauty, to hold pain without needing it to disappear.

You stopped asking What do they want from me? and started asking What do I want to become?

As the seasons passed, you saw the world more sharply. You looked at institutions and began to understand them. You saw how many people follow out of fear, how many are silenced by comfort, how many are kept ignorant because it serves someone else's power. You began to feel the unbearable weight of injustice—not in headlines, but in the faces of those who carry it.

You saw that the stories you were told about gods, about country, about success—many were stitched together to keep people asleep. You saw how young people were marched into wars they didn’t understand. How the poor were used to keep the rich comfortable. How women and men were made to forget their brilliance because they were taught to be obedient.

But instead of bitterness, something deeper opened in you: a vow.

A vow to learn not just for yourself, but for others. To protect the genius in people before the world smothers it. You no longer read just for pleasure—you read to see. You read the philosophers, not for quotes, but to sit beside their loneliness, their searching. And you began to think your own thoughts, thoughts synthetized on the shoulders of giants.

You walked farther now. You slept under stars. You began to feel small in the best way—not insignificant, but part of something vast and alive. You saw how cities flicker like nervous hearts from the mountain’s edge. You saw how humans build towers to feel important, but forget how to look up. And so you looked up. You looked within. You kept walking.

In time, you stopped needing to be someone. You simply were.

Sometimes serious, sometimes playful. You laughed more. You forgave yourself. You forgave others. You let go of old expectations, but held tightly to what mattered. You no longer needed to argue—you simply lived your truth so clearly that it spoke louder than words.

And then, something extraordinary happened:

You became a storyteller.

Others came to you, not because you demanded attention, but because your presence gave them permission to be more alive. You wrote down what you had learned—not as answers, but as seeds. You told stories by firelight. You asked beautiful questions. You left traces—not to be remembered, but to help others remember themselves.

And now, standing quietly in your fullness, you know: You are not the end of a path. You are the bridge. You are the breath between generations. You are a great being—not because of fame or perfection, but because you have chosen to carry wisdom forward, so that others, too, may rise.

But your wonder had only grown larger. You began to think about the whole of humanity—not as a mass of history or politics, but as a fragile, exquisite species.

A symphony of minds born into dust, somehow capable of poetry, kindness, and mathematical insight. You began to dream—not of escape, but of continuation. Of what it might mean to protect this improbable miracle. To shield the beautiful mind of humankind from extinction, from ignorance, from its own blind impulse toward destruction.

You fell in love with virtue—not as obedience to rules, but as a way of being. You studied courage, not for war, but for honesty. You studied compassion, not as pity, but as presence. Integrity became your compass. You began to live as if every small action was a note in a longer song that others would one day hear.

Then one night, you read about the search for signals in the sky. A whisper from a distant civilization. A flicker of intelligence in the static of the cosmos.

And your whole being lit up. You realized: if we are not alone, if there is even one other voice in the dark, then we must be worthy of being heard. We must survive, not only physically, but morally. We must send into the universe not just spacecraft, but truthful transmissions of who we are, and who we hope to become.

You learned about the work of those who listened to the sky for decades, waiting for a single clear note. And you joined them—in heart, in mind, in spirit. You understood that science wasn’t cold; it was luminous. It was reverence made method. You dreamed not of conquering the stars, but of meeting them with open hands.

And still, you went further.

You began to study aging—not as decay, but as biology’s unfinished sentence. You wondered: could we cure it? Not to escape death, but to extend the time we have to learn, to love, to care for each other. You imagined a future where humans aged like trees—slowly, wisely, with grace. You imagined children born not just on Earth, but on the moons of Jupiter. On the red dust of Mars. In the floating cities of Venus, where the clouds sing with electricity.

You dreamed of humans diverging across the Milky Way, adapting to new worlds, breathing underwater beneath alien oceans. We would still be us—recognizable in our laughter, in the way we sing to newborns, in the way we reach for one another in the dark.

You imagined libraries on every outpost. Art floating in space. Sculptures made of starlight. And even after we changed, we would remember—Earth, our first cradle. The scent of rain. The aching beauty of Chopin. The feel of another's hand.

But you also knew: none of this would matter if we did not change ourselves first.

And so you begun teaching. You taught that the true task of our time was not just survival—but transcendence with integrity. You told the young: “You are not passengers on this world. You are builders of its meaning.” You reminded them that a civilization capable of creating artificial intelligence must also learn how to listen, how to forgive, how to mourn the forests it has burned.

You were no longer just a person. You had become a link in the long light—a chain of beings reaching forward through time, sending not just technology, but wisdom across generations.

One day, someone will look back—perhaps from another star, perhaps in another body entirely—and they will not know your name. But they will be living a life you helped make possible. Because you dared to dream beyond yourself. Because you chose wisdom when it was easier to turn away. Because you walked, and walked, and walked—until you reached the place where the personal became inter-planetary.

And there, you stood.

A great being, not born—but made, by choice.

A guardian of what is sacred in us.

And a messenger, carrying the flame into the dark.