Standing on the Cliff: Freedom, Fear, Christ, and the Endless Highway Below

You know, recently during my retreat at St. Xavier's Villa, I was standing on the edge of the mountain after dinner. Retreat time is usually a time of silence, prayer, reflection, and trying to act holy while internally your mind is running like Mumbai local trains during rush hour. But somehow, that cliff became my favorite place.

That place is beautiful. Truly beautiful.

When you stand there and look at the world from above, everything changes. The lights below look peaceful. The air touches differently. The wind speaks in a language only silence understands. The whole world appears calm, meaningful, almost divine. Honestly, I wish I could give you my eyes for just five minutes so you could see what I saw that night.

And then suddenly, while standing there, one realization hit me very hard.

From far away, the world looks beautiful and peaceful. But when you enter the world, when you actually live inside it, it is full of struggles, confusion, pressure, expectations, disappointments, responsibilities, loneliness, competition, and endless running.

And maybe… just maybe… those struggles are what make the world look so beautiful from far away.

Because when I looked at the city lights from that cliff, it felt as though every light carried a story. Somewhere a mother was waiting for her son to come home. Somewhere a man was returning tired after work. Somewhere someone was crying silently. Somewhere someone had just fallen in love. Somewhere someone was praying. Somewhere someone had lost hope.

And all these stories looked interconnected.

Like humanity itself was one giant unfinished novel.

As I stood there on the cliff, I suddenly felt like escaping from this world. Just leaving everything behind. No expectations. No system. No proving yourself. No reports. No comparisons. No endless performance.

But wait.

At the same moment, I also felt deeply connected to the world below.

Connected to people.

Connected to stories.

Connected to relationships.

Connected to those whom I cannot leave behind.

And that feeling became painful.

Because between me and the world lay a deep valley. And strangely, in that valley, I felt freedom.

But this freedom did not feel peaceful.

It felt painful.

Very painful.

Because I could see where the world is heading. Everyone rushing. Everyone competing. Everyone trying to become something. Everyone trapped in systems they themselves created.

And somewhere within all this chaos, I know I am called for something. I know I am called out of this world in some way to follow Him. But still, I felt something was missing.

Because this freedom I chose—or maybe the freedom through which I was called—sometimes does not feel like freedom at all.

It feels entangling.

Holding back.

Heavy.

Maybe this is not freedom. I do not know.

Because somewhere rules have taken over the spirit.

And honestly, to follow Christ, how many rules are truly needed?

Sometimes it feels like an endless loop. A system running because the system must continue running. Everyone maintaining it because everyone before them maintained it. And slowly the person disappears while the structure survives.

As I stood there in the night, I could see the highway below. Trucks were rushing continuously toward somewhere. Red lights moving endlessly in the darkness.

And suddenly it hit me again:

Life is exactly like that highway.

Everyone is in a hurry to reach somewhere.

But reach where?

And after reaching… do what?

Can we not enjoy the journey itself? Can we not enjoy the choices we have made? Why must everything become so heavy?

Aree yaar… it is our journey only no?

Then enjoy and go.

Make it meaningful.

Stop sometimes.

Breathe sometimes.

Move aside sometimes.

Cry if needed.

Laugh loudly if possible.

Eat good food.

Love deeply.

Pray honestly.

And continue.

But then another question comes:
What stops me from simply walking freely?

Fear.

Expectations.

Responsibility.

Society.

And the burden of how others will interpret your choices.

Maybe I cannot stop because I am connected to people, and then they will have to answer on my behalf about my “failure,” even when it may not actually be failure at all.

Standing there, one question kept coming into my mind:
Do I really matter in this huge world?

And strangely, the answer that came was:
Yes.

Because I am connected to someone else’s story.

And maybe that is what gives meaning to human existence.

Not achievements.

Not titles.

Not success.

But connection.

I realized there on that cliff that I want to become a wanderer who is truly free—free enough to make an impact on people just as Christ did.

But honestly, that thought itself scares me.

Because then the next question comes:
Will the world accept such freedom?

Or does the world only tolerate controlled versions of freedom?

Maybe this is how philosophers are born. Every philosopher, I feel, must have had some moment like this. Some experience where reality suddenly became too visible to ignore.

Maybe Søren Kierkegaard felt this dread. Maybe Friedrich Nietzsche stood somewhere questioning everything. Maybe Martin Heidegger felt this abyss while speaking about Being and nothingness. Maybe every philosopher first suffered life before writing about it.

And then comes the most painful realization of all.

Look at Jesus.

He immersed Himself fully into the world.

He did not escape humanity.

He entered it completely.

And then He died on the Cross.

Maybe that is what makes Him greater than every philosopher—not merely that He understood suffering, but that He embraced it fully out of love.

And honestly, that terrifies me.

Because I am not Jesus.

I am afraid.

Afraid to be alone in this quest.

Afraid of sacrifice.

Afraid of misunderstanding.

Afraid of giving everything and still failing.

And maybe every human being fears this.

But at the end of that night, standing there on the cliff, one realization became very clear to me:

Freedom only becomes meaningful when it is shared.

Freedom experienced alone becomes loneliness.

True freedom exists only in relation.

Only when you can give freedom to someone else too.

Only when another person can breathe because of your presence.

Only then does freedom become real.

Every person is trapped in some story. Every person is wounded. Every person is carrying something invisible. And there I was, standing on that cliff, trying to understand humanity through silence and wind.

But still one question remained:

“Why have You called me, Lord?”

And suddenly, in that moment, I wished my grandmother was there beside me.

I wished I could simply put my head on her lap and tell her everything happening within me. Sit there for hours. No philosophy. No theology. No formation talks. Just her listening silently while I try to understand reality through her experience.

And honestly, tears come not because life is a burden, but because this responsibility of being human suddenly feels enormous.

What hurts even more is realizing that human beings themselves have created endless systems and loops and are proudly pulling everyone into them, forgetting that somewhere along the line they may have crushed God’s dream for that individual person.

And you might think:
“This is just your thinking.”

No.

This is what many people feel but cannot express.

Philosophy only helped me put words to it.

Our Fr. Luke says that with every choice comes sacrifice. And he is right. But I feel sacrifice should lead toward the good of others and not become a cold personal detachment that loses human meaning altogether.

Every philosopher, in some way, tried to heal what they felt society had misunderstood. Their philosophy was not merely theory. It was biography hidden inside ideas.

And maybe that is what life finally is.

A wounded human being trying to make meaning out of existence while standing somewhere between the cliff and the city lights below.

The Cliff, the Cross, and the Question That Remains

That night on the cliff did not give me answers.

It gave me clearer questions.

Maybe freedom is not escape. Maybe freedom is responsibility shared with love. Maybe vocation is not about running away from the world but entering it more deeply without losing your soul. Maybe the reason the world looks beautiful from far away is because every struggle, every wound, every sacrifice, and every act of love together create that beauty.

But then another uncomfortable question remains:

If everyone is rushing somewhere, who is actually living?

And if systems keep growing while humanity keeps shrinking, what exactly are we building?

At the end, maybe Christ on the Cross is not merely about suffering. Maybe it is about remaining connected to humanity despite suffering.

And maybe that is the hardest thing in the world.

To stay connected.

To love.

To remain soft in a hard world.

To remain human in systems that slowly turn people into products.

And still, despite all confusion, one hidden prayer remains inside me:

“Lord, if You have truly called me, then teach me how to be free without abandoning love.”

Student Of Philosophy - Rohan Brahmane