When I was a younger man, I flirted with Nihilism—an odd thing to admit as someone who has always believed in a God with a plan for the world. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity that drew my eyes to the purported abyss of existence. Maybe it was the frustrating fact of whiling my days away, making smoothies for $10/hr (+ tips) beneath wan fluorescent lights and amid the soft fermented reek of fruit, when my aspiration was to be paying bills with my guitar. Or maybe it was the haunting suspicion that I was unwilling to forfeit the meager security that crappy job afforded me to even have a shot at making the latter happen. In any case, I allowed myself to partake in other people’s hopeless thinking.
Nihilism effected in me the same rush that a scary story would. It was the thrill of imagining something terrible without giving myself over to it or really believing in it. Or so I thought. After a while the idea that nothing was waiting at the end of this existence sounded nice. Like a long, dreamless sleep after a lifetime of long, weary days.
All this nihilistic thought fell like a fog over my eyes, obscuring the meaningful world from my perception. The world became a hateful place. I recall reading an article that argued that it was a mark of intelligence to be depressed—how could rightly ascertaining the facts of the world lead to anything else? The world was bad, bad, bad, and we were all trapped in it.
I should note that I never felt suicidal—though I was shook when a roommate described “passive suicidal ideation” to me. I was further baffled that she could not relate to feeling like it would be easier to not wake up some days. How could it not be normal to find sleep preferable to a waking life of dissatisfaction? I see now how warped I had let my mindset become. Everything was an obstacle I had no agency to surpass. I didn’t realize that my dissatisfaction with life was merely masking dissatisfaction with myself. Even with the veil lifted, it didn’t make life easy.
I found nothing more frustrating than choosing (actively or passively) not to take the next step toward the things I claimed I wanted for myself. It’s embarrassing to realize how much I expected, at the very least wished, the hard things would be done for me… the easy things too. Every endeavor seemed pointless, so why would I expend energy in those pursuits? Maybe this had something to do with the aforementioned fog that had clouded my eyes.
Meaning and Color and Light
To not see meaning in the world is a problem of perception, much in the way that not seeing color in the world, even on the grayest of days, is. You don’t have to be married to a painter long to discover that even the brightest whites and darkest shadows hint at colorful hues contained therein. The tones suggested could be warmer or cooler, but they belong to a palette beyond the black, grey, or white that they seem. As Ben Gibbard once advised those whom an apparent lack of color might discourage: “Don’t worry… It’s really bursting at the seams.”
This evening, as I stood on our porch waiting for our little Australian Shepherd to relieve herself, among all the stars in a moonless sky, an odd light strobed in flashes of white, green, and red, blinkering as one of the Christmas lights ornamenting fences and soffits up and down our December street. At first, I wondered if it was a plane, though it didn’t seem to move to my eyes. It just hung there, a beacon of exuberant colorfulness above the darkly blue tents of trees silhouetting the horizon. My dog made water somewhere in the dark, ascended the porch steps, and scratched at the door to let me know we were out in the brisk night for business, not pleasure. I went inside, but couldn’t stop thinking about those colors out of space.1
I was reminded that seeing color necessitates one thing: Light. For that matter, in any human sense, seeing anything at all requires light.
But what does this mean when it comes to writing a story or a poem? Is it necessary that every line, every sentence, be a refutation of the darkness?
To that end, I am not afraid of the dark… so long as, somewhere in the distance, a faint glimmer of light shines forth. The light certainly does not fear the dark. Light is all the more glorious in the midst of darkness. Could I have seen that sparkling prism that danced in the night sky were I basking in the warmth of a brighter day? No. And I tell you, that faint shimmering light is no less majestic than our furiously burning sun.
And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it — John 1:5
I later learned that I was (probably?) looking at the star Sirius, and that the light from all stars splits in prismatic refraction when the stars are low on the horizon. Sirius being the brightest star in the sky makes this effect more noticeable. Also, “Color Out of Space” is a great short horror story by HP Lovecraft.
Love this one ♥️