The Overman is a What not a Who

The overman is not an actual person as this materialization would negate his mystery. It would only be a projection of the thought. And thought is limited. It is an Idea:

I imagine myself as a knight protecting a fort. My armor is battered, my sword heavy with the dried blood of our relentless enemies. For 30 days and 30 nights, my brothers and I have stood as bastions against the storm. We were comrades bound by an unspoken vow, each ready to bleed into the stones we defended.

The 31st day dawns with a hollow sky. The enemy’s horns blare their guttural challenge, and like shadows, they surge forward once more. Our walls, scarred and crumbling, barely hold as we clash steel against steel. Stage 1: Fighting valiantly, I witness my brothers falling one by one. Their screams, their dying breaths, are etched into the marrow of my bones. Yet I persist, driven by duty, by a furious will to stand where others have fallen.

The breach comes suddenly. The gates are shattered, and the enemy pours in like a black tide. My comrades’ bodies litter the ground, lifeless sentinels of a lost cause. Stage 2: A terrifying silence grips me as I realize I am alone. Fear coils around my heart, whispering of futility and despair. But then, like a spark in the void, the will to power ignites within me. It roars through my veins, transforming fear into primal ferocity.

I fight like an animal—not for victory, not for glory, but for the sheer affirmation of existence. My blade becomes an extension of my will, cutting through the darkened horde. I am no longer a man; I am a force, an unstoppable surge of defiance. Blood splashes my face, my breath comes in ragged gasps, and still, I fight, each moment a rebellion against the inevitable.

But even the will to power has its limits. Stage 3: Exhaustion overtakes me. My limbs grow heavy, my vision blurs, and my strikes falter. The enemy surrounds me, yet in this moment, I feel no fear. Instead, I am consumed by a profound stillness, a calmness that swallows the chaos. The inevitability of death becomes a quiet embrace, not an end but a transformation.

I fall to my knees, my sword slipping from my hand. My blood seeps into the earth, mingling with that of my fallen brothers. My heart slows, each beat a gentle echo of the battle that raged within me. Peace washes over me, and as the world fades, I smile. For in that stillness, I understand: the overman is not a being to strive for, but a state of becoming, an eternal dance beyond life and death.

The storm passes, and the fort falls silent. Yet the Idea lingers, unbroken, untamed, waiting to be reborn.