No Such Thing As Nothing
Bears, Bread Factories, and the Impossibility of Not Being
The very idea of anything presupposes everything. Yes, everything. Which means nothing, true absolute nothing, does not and cannot exist. I’d say “by its very nature,” but it has no nature. It’s nothing, after all. Absolutely, utterly non-existent. A non-thing. The one and only complete delusion.
This hit me hard during a brutal depressive episode. Cursing God, the designer, the alien overlord, the gamer. Whoever the hell is running this circus. I couldn’t take it. Still can’t. Not just the state of the world, but existence itself. The whole warped, dazzling mess. How can a love so deep for life and the living be so violently at odds with reality? The chaos. The contradictions. The constant low-grade hum of existential dread.
Let me be blunt: I think existence is a goddamned nightmare. That’s the nice version. I don’t walk around trembling over it. No energy left for that. Thankfully the depression only hits when I’m at home, which is a mere 99% of the time. Can’t find peace there, no matter where I crash. I always want to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. A thousand places at once. If I’m not home, at least I’m somewhere I haven’t bled out in yet. Novelty is my lifeblood.
Stagnation kills me. I need stimulation and I’m never getting enough. You know how expensive stimulation is? Of course you do. We live in the same economic sinkhole. Nature’s the only cheap fix, and I’m afraid of bears.
Still, I appreciate that bears exist somewhere. Far away from my well-fed flesh. Ever fantasize about fighting off a bear? Fuck yes you have. Everyone does. But you still go on that hike because you don’t really believe you’ll run into one. That’s faith. Me? I’ve already named the bear that will be the end of me. Frank. I know the protocol: stay calm, posture, make yourself boring. I’d forget all of it instantly. I’d blow a bear horn in my own ear and shit myself before Frank even broke stride.
Why am I talking about bears? Right: fear, bravery, and wanting to hang out with trees. Trees are cheap. Books are cheap. Library late fees are manageable. But everything else costs blood. Even the free stuff wants something in return. Hell, even sex. The thing that got us all here. That sacred act of euphoric connection has killed people. Still does. In some places, in some ways. The only memorable sex I’ve ever had outdoors was in the parking lot of a Franz bread factory, drunk at 3 am. Scientifically un-frownable.
Existence is at war with itself. But also, somehow, in perfect harmony. It’s the most insane, gorgeous, unsolvable thing. A paradox machine. It’s God. Or not. Or code. Or all of us playing games inside ourselves. No one knows. Anyone who says they know is lying. It’s unknowable. That’s the only thing we can know. It’s impossibly beautiful and impossibly maddening.
We’re alive. Really let that take hold. You. Me. Alive. In this. Whatever this is. What does that even mean?
How does anything exist? Why isn’t it just nothing?
Because nothing doesn’t exist. It can’t. The second you think about nothing, something exists. The concept of nothing is a concept, and concepts are something. The very fact that something is even possible as a concept renders nothing the only actual concept that cannot be truly realized. Something is. Always.
We’re not built to hold this. But thanks to consciousness, we try. I’m writing. You’re reading. We’re clawing at the edges of something immense and unspeakable together. It’s horrifying. It’s hilarious. It’s it. The only it. Eternally has been. Forever will be. Nothing more. Nothing less.
