I see the universe as an endless ocean of indifference. It does not care about my existence, nor will it ever. This void frees me. In knowing that life has no inherent meaning, I am no longer bound by others’ expectations or empty promises. My words, my actions, even my name will vanish in time, and that liberates me to live solely for the moments I choose.
Existential nihilism handed me a blank page. Life’s meaning is not given; it is mine to write. This truth healed my old anxieties and fear of death. Without the weight of cosmic judgment or grand missions, I now craft my own meaning, fragile and transient as it may be. I no longer search for reasons that do not exist. Instead, I embrace this empty space as an invitation to create.
There is terrible splendor in meaninglessness itself. Each fleeting breath and each fading ray of light shines with a beauty that can never be repeated. Life feels unbearably bright and fragile at once. The universe will forget me, but in that forgetfulness, I find a strange, exquisite peace. The impermanence of it all makes every moment a miracle worthy of laughter and tears.
