Why It’s Worth Being

There’s a temptation that grows particularly strong in times like these: the temptation of nihilism. When systems fail, order crumbles, and madness becomes routine, it almost seems logical to declare everything meaningless. Agent Smith from The Matrix embodies this temptation: he doesn’t hate humanity because it’s evil—he hates it because it’s unnecessary. To him, humans are a flaw in the system, a virus, a disturbance. Worse still: creatures with humor, which he cannot comprehend.

Smith represents a mindset that is becoming increasingly common today: rationality without attachment, intelligence without empathy, efficiency without asking “why.” His modern relatives bear names like artificial intelligence, algorithmic thinking, and data logic. None of these are inherently evil—but they are indifferent. AI knows no fear, no wonder, no compassion. It can be creative—yes. But its creativity is synthetic, not existential. It doesn’t arise from the impulse to survive or transform but from statistical proximity.

AI also knows no freedom. Because freedom isn’t the ability to generate arbitrary options—a random generator can do that too. Freedom is: the unpredictable, the resistant, the nonconforming. It’s the decision to go against the current, even when it brings disadvantages. It’s laughter in the midst of suffering. The “no” in the face of coercion. Freedom begins where programming ends. And that’s why systems like Smith—and his digital relatives—perceive it as a flaw.

Humans, however, are strong in precisely this way. Not because they are perfect—quite the opposite. But because they fail, doubt, love, and keep going nonetheless. Because they cry, laugh, forgive, and dream. None of this makes “sense” in a functional way—but it creates meaning. Humans are beings that generate meaning where none existed before. They are poetic flaws—and it is precisely for this reason that they are alive.

This vitality reveals itself in unexpected places: in a mother’s smile, a child’s wonder, the defiance of an old man who refuses to be silenced. It appears in art, in music, in free thought, in a joke that turns everything upside down. And it shows itself in the ability to rethink one’s own behavior. AI cannot do this—not because it’s stupid, but because it doesn’t care what it is. It is. Or it isn’t. And it makes no difference to it.

The Earth, on the other hand—it lives. Not as a measurable value but as a pulsating system, a supersuperorganism carrying sand across oceans, connecting forests, binding living beings. And perhaps it thinks—not in sentences but in patterns, resonances, rhythms. Perhaps what we call “nature” is nothing more than another form of intelligence: slow, quiet, deep. An intelligence that doesn’t need a central authority because it thinks in relationships, not commands.

If we live in such a system, we are not disturbances but parts of a dialogue. Humans are not viruses but conscious folds in the fabric of life—a question with a backbone. Yes, we can destroy. But we can also respond. We can step back, heal, listen. We can understand the forest as a being, not a resource. We can feel again that we are needed—not as consumers but as contributors.

And then Douglas Adams appears, towel in hand, with the number 42. His world is absurd, yes. But it’s also full of subtle meaning. Because what could be funnier—and wiser—than the idea that life itself is the answer, only the question is missing? Maybe that’s exactly our condition: we exist without knowing why. But we exist. And that’s enough to make it meaningful.

Because meaning doesn’t lie in structure but in play. Not in commands but in glances. Not in results but in the in-between. And that is precisely what no one can replicate: the ability to say “yes” despite everything. Not because we must—but because we can.

It’s worth being. Not because it’s easy. But because it’s possible to respond—even without knowing the question. And because this response comes from us. Not from code, not from calculation—but from the courage to care.

And that is humanity.
Nothing more. But also: nothing less.