There is a certain attitude that one faces when they delve greedily into the annals of philosophy: a great, existential realization that there is no good argument for meaningful understanding, or unification of the universe. The more "How" we understand, the less "Why" there is to be had, and that we grow tired-eyed and soft-brained finding less and less in our periphery as our nuclei is sequestered from others via its own electron. The space between these items is loneliness, we are cursed with ennui. No one we love do we truly know, and no one will love us as any assortment of what we are. Skepticism is unanswerable, and even our most basic assumptions are likely to be false. Many philosophers are addicts and clinically insane.
But there is a certain drive to outgrow this classic doom that philosophy has saddled us with. A lonely walk through a cognitive windstorm; we flip up our collars, pull up our scarves and soldier through our oh, so human limitations to attempt to gain a modicum of understanding in an infinity of Being.