Our Existence

In the boundless abyss of space and the stretched, elongated fiber of time, our existence has failed or will ultimately and inevitably fail to manifest. It does not, nor will it register as a flicker, a particle of dust in the wind – but rather as the faintest theoretical possibility that transiently dreamed itself into matter and an illusory sense of consciousness, before dissolving back into nothing. Considering in relative to the cosmos, human life is not simply insignificant; it has never been ontologically present.

To insist that life inherently possesses meaning is futile, as if screaming at the top of your lungs into a vacuum. Yet, the universe is not hostile; it does not mock the sense of life being nihilistic. It is rather indifferent and is innately constructed as such.

The nihilism I write of is shaped by the shadows of many great philosophical minds. Yet its purpose here is not to cultivate despair, nor to sow a pessimistic view of life and existence.

Rather, it is with the intention of admiring the courage to rebel, not to submit. To find purpose, in a precise or vague sense, where none is given. It is in the acceptance of this existential condition – and in the refusal to be subdued by it – that I have discovered a kind of personal heroism. My purpose, then, is not found or naturally present, but forged: an act of meaning-making in a world devoid of inherent meaning.