You ever have one of those days where nothing matters? I mean, really nothing matters—like, you could stare at the ceiling for hours, wondering why you bother paying bills or texting people back or even wearing pants. A few months ago, I tried writing an article about exactly that. The punchline was gonna be a shameless merch plug because hey, if existence is meaningless, why not buy a raccoon-themed beanie? But halfway through listing all the reasons life is a cosmic joke, I realized something: leaning into the void doesn’t feel edgy or cool when you’re already drowning in it.
When Life Feels Like a Trash Fire
Let me backtrack. The past year? Absolute trash fire. Got kicked out of a house I loved. Lost pets, friends, safe spaces. Spent weeks rotting on a couch, replaying every bad decision, every “what if,” while the world outside burned with pandemics and political dumpster fires. And in the quiet moments, my brain kept poking this little black door in the back of my mind. You know the one. The door labeled “Hey, Remember You’re Gonna Die and None of This Matters?” It’s the kind of thought that starts as a whisper but ends as a scream. Wars, genocide, climate collapse, Red Hot Chili Peppers albums—none of it’s leading anywhere. The universe doesn’t care. It’ll keep expanding long after we’re gone, stretching into infinite, empty dark. Even the black holes will evaporate. Poof. No encore.
Why Bother Doing Anything?
For a while, I fixated on that. Like, why bother doing anything? Why paint, write, love, or learn to cook a decent risotto if it all vanishes? Ernest Becker called this “terror management theory”—the idea that everything we build, from religions to TikTok fame, is just a shaky scaffold against the fear of death. We’re the only animals who know we’re mortal, so we invent immortality through legacies, kids, or memes. But here’s the twist: realizing nothing matters isn’t a dead end. It’s a detour sign.
The Cosmic Accident of Being Alive
Think about it. You didn’t ask to be born. Neither did I. We’re here by cosmic accident, thrust into a world of deadlines, traffic jams, and questionable fashion trends. But here’s the thing: you’ve got time. Not infinite time, not even enough time, but some. And that time is wholly, stupidly yours. Yeah, the universe might dissolve into photons and neutrinos someday. Yeah, your boss might still email you at 11 p.m. But right now? You could eat stupidly spicy noodles. Binge a terrible reality show. Call someone you miss. Learn the ukulele. Fail. Try again.
The Void Will Come Anyway
I’ve spent nights paralyzed by the void, sure. But then I remember: that void’s gonna come whether I fret about it or not. So why let it rent space in my head now? When I’m old and grey (if I’m lucky), I don’t wanna clench my jaw thinking, “Damn, I wish I’d stressed more about retirement accounts.” I wanna laugh, knowing I ate the cake, kissed the wrong people, danced badly, and let myself be gloriously, messily alive.
Death as a Motivator
Death isn’t the enemy. It’s the deadline. The world’s worst motivator, but a motivator all the same. Wanting to quit drawing stick figures (seriously, my art looks like a toddler’s fridge masterpiece) or write a song that makes someone cry in their car isn’t naive—it’s rebellion. It’s giving the middle finger to oblivion by cramming your flicker of time with sparks.
So here’s my take: let the void lurk. Let it hiss that nothing matters. Then go matter anyway. Be kind. Create garbage art. Adopt a plant. Forgive yourself for being a work in progress. The universe might not care, but you can. And honestly? That’s enough.
Maybe the real merch plug here isn’t a raccoon hat. It’s this: life’s a limited-edition drop. No restocks. So wear it out, scuff it up, and make sure the sequel—if there is one—is wild.
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