Skip to main content

Exploring Human Motives

It was an ordinary morning, one of those where the light slants through the window, turning the air into a suspended promise. What moves me today? What moved me yesterday? These questions swirl around me like restless phantoms, whispering answers only to vanish into the ether, resisting answers altogether. Yet, something lingers — an invisible thread, a latent desire to cling to a motive. Because without motive, who are we?

Perhaps it is hunger. That primal, essential hunger gnawing at the body, bending the world before a hot plate of food. An instinct that drives us before thought even takes shape. Hunger is not just for sustenance; it is for life itself, for survival, for the next breath, the next step forward.

Or perhaps it is fear. Fear of what? Of not being seen, of being seen too much, of existing without leaving a mark. Fear shrinks us yet protects us. Hunger and fear — so primal, so alive, as old as time itself. They guide us in the shadows, shaping our choices before we even recognise them. They whisper in our ears, urging caution, demanding action.

But there is something beyond hunger and fear — something that stretches towards the other. The other who looks at me, desires me, rejects me. The other who shapes me. The yearning to be with, the longing to be noticed in another's gaze. We seek connection, not only to escape solitude but to validate our own existence.

Love, care, attraction — the invisible anchors that pull us, binding us to the earth. The touch that warms us, the word that affirms us, the absence that unravels us. And if the other were not there? What would remain of me? Would we be nothing more than spectres, drifting without reflection, without witness to our existence?

Yet life is not only about being seen — it is about engaging in the dance of existence. And play. Ah, play. A serious game, laughter that teaches, a rehearsal for life itself. Play is both a motive and an escape — a way to touch the world without being wounded, to turn monotony into art, to shape chaos into something comprehensible.

The game of life, of words, of the small deceptions we tell ourselves. Perhaps that is why status is so fierce. Deep down, we want more than just to exist — we want to be known for having existed. A trace in time, a name that does not fade with the tide. A mark that withstands the erosion of forgetfulness, an identity carved into the fabric of history.

And in this game of existence, we seek fairness. And there is justice. The invisible order that keeps us standing. We want things to be right, to be fair, for the world to return what we give to it. And when it does not, there is anger, a rising force within us demanding equilibrium.

There is revolt, that spark that pushes us towards change or into the abyss. The yearning for balance, to see the weight of actions measured and returned. Yet the world does not always follow the rules we create for it. And then — what remains for us? The struggle, the choice between acceptance and resistance.

Perhaps, in seeking balance, we also seek permanence. And there is accumulation. The urge to gather, to preserve, to collect that which offers us security. The world is uncertain, and objects provide the illusion of control. We create to give meaning, shape to define ourselves, leave traces of our existence in everything we touch. Creation is our attempt at immortality, a desperate reach toward eternity.

But accumulation is not enough — we must also question, explore. There is also curiosity, that restless flame that drives us to explore, to learn, to question. Without it, the world would remain unchanged — no discoveries, no new horizons, no revolutions of thought or understanding.

Curiosity propels us beyond the limits of the known, forcing us to see what lies beyond the next turn. It is the thirst for knowledge, for novelty, for adventure. Yet, no matter how much we explore, we yearn for connection.

And there is affiliation, belonging, the need to find a home, a tribe, a community. Loneliness weighs heavily, and connection with others strengthens us, gives us meaning, shields us from the vast indifference of the world. We long to be among our own, to feel part of something greater than ourselves, to hear voices echo our own.

Amidst it all, we seek solace. Amidst it all, there is comfort. The desire for rest, for safety, for solace. Weariness overtakes us, and we seek the refuge of softness, the certainty of routine, the relief of familiarity. Comfort allows us to breathe, to exist without the relentless burden of the search, to pause before moving forward again.

And if, in the end, none of this mattered? If the truth was simply the fact of being here, now, writing these words without the need for a reason? Perhaps the greatest freedom is just that: sometimes, to simply be. To breathe, without guilt, without pursuit, without the compulsion to fill the void with explanations. To simply be — and perhaps, that alone is enough.

Reference: HSE University; London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. 15 Key Motives Drive Human Behavior. Neuroscience News, 19 fev. 2025.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

When Shawn Mendes Became a Lifeline

When my father fell ill in his final days, the lyrics of Shawn Mendes’ In My Blood became an unexpected refuge, helping me process the reality unfolding before me. The song’s plea — its raw, urgent cry against the weight of helplessness — resonated in a way that felt almost too personal. “Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in” — those words captured the suffocating dread that gripped me in the small hours, waiting for news, hoping for a miracle I already knew would not come. The song does not offer easy comfort; nor does it deny the pain of endurance. Instead, it acknowledges the struggle — the desperate search for strength when every instinct urges collapse. “I just wanna give up, but I can’t.” That was it, exactly. The exhaustion, the emotional erosion, the moments when hope felt like a cruel joke. And yet, beneath it all, an unspoken defiance: the fight continues, not because it is easy, but because surrender is unthinkable. The grief that followed those long hours ...

The Quiet Battle of Becoming

Sometimes I write selfish pages. Not out of greed, nor vanity — no. I write them as if whispering to myself in the dark, so I don’t forget. Because forgetting is easy. The noise of the world is thick, sticky, clinging to the skin and numbing the senses. And in this blur of days, of duties, of silences swallowed whole, I must remind myself of what truly matters. Life isn’t a straight line, nor a grand revelation. It is a slow unravelling, a peeling away of what isn’t yours until you find what is. Never stop fighting, they say, until you arrive at your destined place. But what is destiny if not the place where you are most yourself? And how do you know when you’ve arrived? You don’t. You just keep moving, sculpting yourself with each step, shedding skins that no longer fit. There must be an aim, a north, a whisper calling you forward. Otherwise, what is effort but exhaustion? With purpose, even suffering holds meaning. The wind scatters those who walk without direction, but t...

The Shape of Thought

Gustav Klimt once said, “Art is a line around your thoughts.” A line — thin as a whisper, trembling yet deliberate — emerges from nothingness. It does not impose itself. It does not command. It is barely there, yet it holds. It is the first breath of form, the fragile boundary between the unsaid and the spoken. Without it, thought is a flicker in the dark, a thing half-lived, dissolving before it can be known. A vision stirs. Not summoned, not controlled. It arrives unbidden — whole yet veiled, elusive yet certain. It lingers at the edge of perception, pressing gently, insistently, against the mind’s quiet. It cannot be seized outright. To reach for it is to risk shattering it; to hesitate is to watch it dissolve. And so, the line must be drawn. But not too soon. Not too rigidly. It must breathe, as thought itself breathes, as meaning unfolds. The hand moves, uncertain yet assured, guided by something beyond logic. An intelligence older than language, something that knows ...