“I wake up in the middle of the night and notice tears in my eyes. … I know that I’m not depressed; not anxious; I don’t even think I’m lonely. But what’s left? I can’t put my finger on it. It feels like the whole Universe is silent — that it’s right here, everywhere, inside of me, outside of me, and that it has nothing to say to me, nothing to ask of me.” — Zat Rana
For me, this doesn't grab me in the middle of the night — usually in the evening. In these moods, everything reveals its true nature: utterly pointless.
I try to come up with a counterexample. Whatever I can think of, there is something — it — essential lacking. No exceptions.
Giving up, a feeling of eternal, penetrating, futility grabs me. Pervasive, biting meaninglessness.
Life is empty, I realize. But what is missing from it? I ascertain: nothing is missing. All the ingredients for a good life are within reach.
But it’s not enough.
There’s only one conclusion possible: the gaping hole in my soul is unfillable. Nothing could do it.
