I’ve been thinking about why we’re so obsessed with finding a meaning.
When you strip everything away, it’s just pure, raw ego.
We show up in a universe that doesn't even know we exist, and we immediately start demanding a script,
a reason to be here, as if existence itself owed us an explanation.
The truth is, we are terrified of being no one.
So we’ve spent centuries inventing cosmic destinies just to justify our survival.
It’s the ultimate narcissism: pretending we’re the protagonists of a grand design when we’re really just biological accidents with an overinflated sense of importance.
The universe isn’t cruel; it’s just indifferent.
But that silence is so deafening that we’ve retreated into an ontological prison.
We’ve turned life into a cold collection of solitudes, where we only see other people as functions, tools, or interferences.
We’ve traded the gift of actually being open to the world for a sterile, desperate attempt to protect our own “I”.
It’s a twisted version of the myth of Sisyphus. We don’t just push the rock; we brag about how heavy it is.
We keep pushing because our ego can’t stand the thought of the rock just sitting there, pointless. We treat life like a mandatory debt we never signed for, fueled by the selfish hope that our struggle makes us special.
There’s a strange paradox in how we often use nihilism.
We claim that nothing matters, yet we still use that meaninglessness to shield our own ego, as if knowing the truth made us superior or gave us the right to be indifferent.
But if nothing truly matters, then even our own cynicism and our own “I” lose their pedestal.
We aren't just nothing. We are nothing trying desperately to be everything.