12th January 2026
Today was a normal day, or at least what passes as normal for me. I woke up at 6 p.m which is technically evening but felt like morning because my brain is on some other timezone. I slept at 2 a.m. yesterday, which means I hibernated longer than most animals that actually hibernate. Even bears would look at my sleep schedule and go, Bruv that's excessive af But whatever. Time feels fake anyway.
I spent most of today thinking. Not doing. Just thinking. Thinking about the world, about how everything feels like it's standing on a thin glass floor that could crack any second. People keep talking about a possible World War 3 like it's just another headline, another trending topic, another doom-scroll snack. Meanwhile, I'm here sleeping like a sloth, as if reality might pause itself until I wake up. It won't. It never does.
Sometimes I wonder if people would be bored of my thoughts. Like, if I turned my brain into chapters, would anyone read them? Or would they say, This dude yaps about nothing again. Maybe I do. Maybe I talk about nothing. But then again, what even is nothing?
That question alone could ruin a perfectly fine evening.
Does nothingness exist?
If nothingness exists, then it is something. Which means it isn't nothing. Which means nothingness can't exist. But if nothingness doesn't exist, then what was there before everything? And if there was something before everything, then there was never truly nothing. So the word "nothing" is already a lie. It's a placeholder our brain invented because it can't handle the idea of absence.
Maybe nothingness is just a human concept, like infinity.
Infinity is another thing that messes with me. How did humans even come up with the idea? Like, who was the first person to look at numbers and say, yeah, these don't end. How would they know? Did they test it? Did they count all the way? Obviously not. They just assumed.
And then they went further and said,Not only does infinity exist, but negative infinity also exists. Bro, how? You can't even see infinity, and now there are two of them?
What if there's an end number?
What if one day, after some insane amount like 10^10^10^10, numbers just… stop? What if the universe goes,No more, that's it, we're done. We'd never know, because we'd never reach it. Infinity might just be an idea we made up because it's convenient, not because it's real.
That's the scary part. Most of what we believe might just be mental shortcuts.
Take light, for example.
Light travels through transparent objects but stops at opaque ones. But what does stop even mean? Where does the photon go? Does it die? Does it get absorbed? Does it get converted into energy? Does it just… give up?
When light hits something opaque, it doesn't just disappear. It gets absorbed, scattered, or reflected. But when I first learned this, my brain didn't accept it. Because it feels like cheating. It feels like the universe is dodging the question.
Where does it go?
We say energy can't be destroyed, only transformed. But transformed into what? Heat? Motion? Vibration? Cool. But where is that now? Is it still the same thing, or is it a new thing wearing the old thing's clothes?
That's how everything feels. Like it's changing outfits but pretending to be the same.
Maybe that's what identity is too.
We say, i am me. But which version? The me from five years ago? The me from yesterday? The me who woke up at 6 p.m. today? None of them think the same way. None of them feel the same. They just share a name and a body.
So what's the real me?
If you replace every part of a ship over time, is it still the same ship? If your cells replace themselves every few years, are you still the same person? Or are you just a continuity illusion?
The brain hates discontinuity. It needs stories. It needs linearity. It needs cause and effect. That's why we freak out about things like WW3. Not just because of destruction, but because it breaks the illusion of control. We like to believe tomorrow will be similar to today. War reminds us that it won't.
And yet, here I am, worrying about infinity and photons while people are out there making real-world decisions that could actually end things. That contrast is insane.
Sometimes I feel like my thoughts don't belong in this world. Like I should've been born in some empty void with nothing but a notebook and a floating rock to stare at. I don't want luxury. I don't want fame. I want answers.
But the universe doesn't give answers. It gives clues.
And half of those clues contradict each other.
Quantum physics says particles can exist in multiple states at once. Philosophy says identity is fluid. Religion says there's purpose. Science says there's probability. Psychology says perception shapes reality. So what is reality?
Is it what exists, or what is experienced?
If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? We've all heard this one. But here's a better one: If something exists but no mind can ever perceive it, does it matter?
Does existence require observation?
Light behaves differently when observed. That alone should terrify everyone. Reality literally changes when watched. That sounds fake, but it isn't.
So maybe nothingness doesn't exist. Maybe unobserved existence is the closest thing to nothingness. A thing that is but is never known.
That's creepier than nothing.
Sometimes I feel like my brain is a room full of voices arguing about these things while I sit in the corner, eating mental popcorn. I'm not a scientist. I'm not a philosopher. I'm just bored. But boredom is dangerous. Boredom creates questions. Questions lead to doubt. Doubt leads to existential spirals at 3 a.m.
And I love it.
Not because it's comfortable but because it's honest.
Most people distract themselves from these thoughts. They scroll, drink, binge, consume. I think. And sometimes I wish I could stop. But then I remember: thinking is the only thing that makes me feel real.
Maybe that's what consciousness is. Not awareness. Not intelligence. But questioning.
A rock doesn't ask why it exists. A photon doesn't wonder where it's going. A number doesn't worry if it ends. But I do.
So maybe that's the point.
Not to find answers but to keep asking.
Not to solve infinity but to stare at it.
Not to define nothingness but to feel confused by it.
Because confusion means you're alive.
And maybe that's enough.
So keep asking. Keep writing your chapters, however fragmented they seem. Because someone out there maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow will read your words and feel less alone in their own late-night spirals.
Your questions echo in ways you can't see.