Reading Sein und Zeit, I keep circling back to Geworfenheit (this image of being thrown). But thrown by what? Heidegger won't say, and maybe that's the point. We wake up already mid-fall, grasping for something to hold. I think about how Dasein is always "mine" yet never fully mine (I didn't choose this anxiety, this body that'll fail, these dead philosophers I'm now answering to). There's something almost cruel in how he makes care (Sorge) the structure of our being. We can't not care. Even numbness is a mode of it. And that gap between thrownness and projection: we're forever translating a past we didn't author into a future we can't guarantee. It's exhausting. Maybe that's authenticity (staying with that exhaustion instead of fleeing into the comfort of "one does this, one does that," das Man's endless anesthetic).