The Great NothingnessMature

Nothing at all. Eventually.


It's what we start out as, it's what we end up as. Just nothing.

And nothingness seems utterly fine with that. Nothingness is neither happy nor sad about it, it just is--or rather, is not. Simply. The only need nothingness has is that of more nothingness. Nothingness is peace.

It's the middle bit, the bit between the two states of nothing, that complicates it all. Once nothing ceases to be nothing, it doesn't want to go back. That is true of everything, but there is not anything that fights the return to nothingness quite like life, and of all life that we know of, we're the only form able to contemplate it.

Yet most of us know we will eventually return to the state of nothing. Not just us, as individuals, but life in general, because the universe is finite. Stars must burn in order to shine. Everything will eventually use itself up until absolute zero is again absolute, as it was before this interruption of peace. Everything will. Everything.

Yet we insist on living, on reproducing so that once we're gone something else will go on living. We do it with the knowledge, or at least a vague subconscious expectation, that eventually it must end, and for the life of me I can't figure out why.

So as I sit here writing this, I do wonder why. Why write this? If by some impossible coincidence another human reads it, then what? They will forget, and even if they do not, what difference will it make? They, too, will eventually return to nothingness, taking with them the memory of this. So, then, what if someone reads it, forgets it or dies, but the source itself remains to be read again? Eventually there will be nothing left to percieve it as something; eventually it will be nothing.

Yet I'm still writing.

Why? I do it in spite, of course. Just for the sake of doing my part in this grand interuption of the Great Nothingness. Does disturbing the peace make me wrong? Is this grand interuption as a whole somehow wrong? Maybe so, but we're too busy trying not to be nothing to care about all that.

And so we do the opposite of nothing, which is anything at all, because doing something can make us forget that eventually we won't be doing anything. When you walk, you don't think that eventually you'll be unable to. When you love, you don't care that eventually you won't. When you write, it doesn't matter that eventually there will be no one left to read.

There are only two sides to everything. There is the anything camp and there is the nothing camp. Anything, Nothing. We could call it good and evil. Most do, if you consider each boiled down to its core essence. We usually refer to ourselves, the anything camp, as good. I'm not so sure about that. We are, after all, a disturbance of the eternal peace of the Great Nothingness. Regardless, because I exist, because I am not nothing, I must stick to my own kind. I'm with anything. Which side are you on? You probably think you know the answer to that, but wait until the next question before you decide.

If there was a way to forever escape the return to nothingness, some bubble in which to float through infinite dark and empty space, one which would prevent a return to nothingness for whatever occupied it, I would gladly step into the bubble and eternal solitude. Once inside, I would have to do something, of course. I would have to do anything at all that isn't nothing. This in order to forever thwart the Great Nothingness: I would bring a means with which to write, and also a light. The light for me to see what I am writing, but also as an eternal sign of contempt, an everlasting Fuck You to the Great Nothingness through which I drift.

Inside, I would write a book. My book would have a beginning but never an end. It would be the greatest book in existence.

Would you step into the bubble, into eternal solitude, to prevent the absolute end of the grand interuption?

What would you bring?

The End

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