L'appel du vide

When I think of non-existence, I think of a sensory deprivation chamber. I think of being free from the earth, detached, with no consequences. There is no pleasure, nor its equal opposite in grief, misery, and despair. I want to disappear, to never be known. I do not see the point of pain. I do not believe that suffering creates meaning. I believe the masters and lords of society have coerced the common folk into that belief to create an endless array of slaves.

The desire to fade is something I want. No expectations from others, only inwardness. There is nothing outside of myself, whatever it is that myself is in being nothingness. I wonder if there would be some type of higher dimensional feeling, internal senses, thought.

The feeling is like a shadow, always looming. It follows me, and even when I forget that it is there, it is still. It waits with me all the days of my life and lays claim to me when it is time.

There is no one trigger, but if a trend line were to be drawn, silence would be the primary indicator. When I am alone with myself, all paths lead to Rome. I continue to revisit the words of Solomon that “all is vanity.” There really is not meaning to anything. It can be prescribed to anything, and then what is its point.

Foremost, it is an urge to stop acting. To stop putting up a facade. The opinions of people do not matter, and if not for the primary motivator of society being monetary gain, which interferes with all things, I would not care to pretend at all. However, for these reasons, our righteous choice has been stripped away. We are forced to participate in a wicked game defined by dubious rules and nefarious overlords.

If the thought had a voice, it would be serene, like the gust of wind in an empty field. It does not think about the direction it carries you in, with no concern for where you will end up or from which height you will fall. It is only concerned with the moment.

I am resisting the unknown, the unwillingness to embrace its natural consequences. I am resisting a permanent choice which, to my limited cosmic knowledge, cannot be undone. I am resisting my belief, the foundations of everything I know and love, and the possibility that in a single moment they could collapse.

Staying alive demands sanity. The ability to engage with frivolousness on a near constant basis. To become performative. To pretend to care about the tribulations of others for social validation.

Mostly, I feel fatigue. The same fatigue that overcomes me when I think of the simple things I yearn for: a cabin, books, space to think, freedom from modern-day bureaucracy. A simple dream denied with a made-up price I cannot afford.

I hate life. I simply perform. There are small pleasantries I find myself lost in: the visual arts, literature, and the queen of sciences, mathematics. Even modern inventions such as the computer, the mix of hardware and software, the written word, and other small pleasures. But the hate is so much greater. The hate for the overlords, the criminals in high places, and the game they have subjected the masses to.

You cannot explain this state of mind because it is illogical. To a human being who cares about nothing more than the protection of their own life, the thought of wishing you never had it is more than ludicrous. They will never understand because they cannot engage. It is not a logical chain but a feeling. It lies not in the mind, but the bones.

When I imagine fading, nothing stops. That is the beauty of it. Noise, expectation, identity, time, all of it continues without you, like you were never there. I find it more satisfying that I could disappear and everything else would continue to go on. The yearning for disappearance is enhanced by the polarity between it and the actors. Without the actors, it might lose its flavor.

What feels true is peace and life away from the game. Not meaning. A cottage in Greece with endless free food for the mind, or trapped in America, what does it matter to the world. There can be nothing but arbitrary meaning attributed to the matter. Does it matter because it will propel me to write, allow another to relate, give them strength, change the world. Why does any of that matter. If the earth were to explode, would not the universe keep expanding.

Mathematics, literature, art, computers feel like part of me. A rebellion against modern life. I do not do these things because I want to. I do them because I have to. I bring them to sleep and awake with them stuck to my mind.

My hatred is directed both at the specific shape of existence I have been forced into, full of needless suffering, and at existence itself for being meaningless in its entirety.

These thoughts live in the bones, like a cold from spine to toes. They feel anesthetic. My body becomes heavy. All I have to do is stop fighting, stop walking, and give in.

When I imagine the cabin, I feel warmth and bliss. The ability to slow down. Life not rushed. Time to cure my illnesses without adding more useless responsibilities to keep me preoccupied.

I fear surviving unchanged, and I fear dying not being a solution. I do not necessarily fear death itself, apart from the fear of the final moments of living in whatever situation brings it upon me.

What exhausts me most about being alive is pretending.