Nil

 Nietzsche never said
“nothing really matters”;
he used such pretty words,
he said it so much better.
I’m not even repeating,
I can’t even distill.
I am nothing, no one,
nil.

I was going to write a song about nihilism
but I couldn’t see the point.

It’s not that I think
that “nothing’s really here”.
I just don’t understand
why I should even care.
I tried to see the answers,
but I was unfulfilled.
And now I’m nothing, no one,
nil.

I was going to write a song about nihilism
but I couldn’t see the point.

I never wanted
to believe in nothing.
But that’s all that was left
after my caring  went running.
They tell me I’m sick,
but there isn’t a pill
for being nothing, no one…
nil.

I was going to write a song about nihilism…
I didn’t see the point.

I didn’t become a nihilist on purpose.  I didn’t take a philosophy class and orgasm over Nietzsche and decide it was really romantic to believe that all of life is inherently meaningless.   In fact, I know almost nothing about nihilism from a philosophical standpoint, aside from a very broad definition.  I couldn’t tell you about the different philosophers and their different interpretations of nihilism.  I was a nihilist before I knew that there was a word for it.

I read once that true nihilism was almost certainly pathological, because it could lead only to despair.  At the time, I thought that was bullshit.  I was deep into being an anthropologist undergraduate at the time, and being good at anthropology necessitates a certain amount of nihilism.  You have to be willing, after all, to put your own beliefs aside and accept the cultural practices of others.

Being naturally predisposed to disregarding my own feelings, this was easy for me.

I’m not blaming anthropology for my nihilism.  They certainly don’t teach nihilism.  I was already heading down that road.  The only thing it did, really, is justify certain beliefs that I already held.

I am more willing to accept, now, that nihilism is pathological, most likely a symptom of the depression that has followed me for most of my life.  My nihilism is like a dirty secret, something I try to hide as carefully as I hide my self-injury.  People don’t like to hear about it, and so I contain the despair that comes from believing in nothing.  There is no comfort; it is pointless to seek comfort; it is pointless to do anything.  Each day is an exercise in futility, because my life will utterly mean nothing.

This is what I wake up for every morning.

Also.  It is hard to write a song (or poem) about nihilism because nothing rhymes with “nihilism.”  True story.