I Am Nothing

by J.S. Sherwood

He sat on a boulder on top of a cliff, the game trail he’d just hiked winding down behind him then reappearing a thousand feet below amidst scattered boulders and cacti. Cholla rose tall to his left, encircling a lone saguaro as if praising the ancient cactus.

In the distance, the towering, glowing eyesore that was modern civilization. He knew why he’d left, knew most people saw it as him running away. From bills. Debt. A relationship that took more from his soul than it gave. The never ending search for a purpose, for a career that did more than give him a paycheck.

 But no, he was an explorer. A scientist of minimalism, a sage of emptiness. For civilization had grown too full, too coated in the stench of dank humanity.

A chill wind rushed through him. He stood, turning to his tent. And there, to the left of it, was another towering cliff that hadn’t been there before, a cave at its bottom. Wonder filled him. His heart beat faster in his chest. He walked to the mouth, because how could he not? Frigid air sucked inward, the cave a vacuum, pulling him in. That cold called to him, comforted him. Something in it told him all he sought would be found in its depths. Freedom. Understanding. Emptiness.

Or perhaps all he wanted was the cold. The nothingness. Not suicide, but something real. A presence of absence that could swallow him whole, bring him... what, exactly?

He walked in. The opening disappeared. Complete absence surrounded him, and he knew not whether to be elated or terrified. A vast expanse. No walls, no ceiling. No dark, no light.

He smiled.

The air blew gently past and around him at a consistent rate. A cold that he wanted to feel. No, needed to feel. Something about it made him want to wrap it around him, feel it on every inch of his skin. He sat down, methodically pulling off each piece of clothing. Until he was as one with Nothing as possible. 

A sound called to him. No, not a sound. A hum. A vibration. He stood and followed, cold yet without a shiver. The hum never grew louder. He walked, endlessly, without sense of time or exhaustion, yet never came any closer to it. After hours or perhaps days, he stopped and lay down, arms outstretched.

Unbidden, the tears fell. His lips trembled. He tried to catch his breath. Crying turned to weeping turned to sobbing. He rolled to his side, clutching knees to stomach. Fits of coughing and dry heaving broke apart the moments of streaming tears. Slowly, the pain subsided.

When he finally opened his eyes, his clothes were folded neatly by his feet. But there was no point in dressing, for when he returned to civilized society he wanted nothing of his old life. In fact, he wanted nothing at all. Nothing material. Not even clothes. No ambition, no chasing of what others claimed was important. There was nothing important anyway, he realized. Or, thought of in another way, Nothing was the only thing of importance. Why all the extra bullshit humans make important to weigh him down? What was the point?

He stood and walked, thinking of the exit and thus knowing he would find it sooner or later. The soft cold still surrounded him, and he knew it would never fully leave him. Not unless he forced it away, and he knew to do so would be to return to his old life. No, he was done with that bullshit. Done with everything.

“So fucking done,” he whispered.

The exit appeared, and he walked out into the same night air, the moon and stars unmoved. A cactus, knee high, stood there, translucent, needles shimmering in the moonlight. He pinched one between thumb and forefinger, plucked it out, looked at his tent. That shelter was hideous now, something extra, that had no place in his new worldview.

The needle split the first seam easily enough, and from there he only had to rip it apart, seam by seam, then walked to the cave and let the vacuum suck in every piece of fabric.

He turned back to the monstrosity in the distance. That behemoth. Nearly a thousand square miles of towering buildings, interconnected by bridges and tunnels. Human living on top of human, all stuck on making something or having something, all unaware that Nothing was the only answer they needed.

But he could change that. He would change that. With a smile and a newfound conviction, he stabbed himself in the sternum with the needle, slid it down, cutting a seam to the pelvis. Flicked the needle into the cave. The cold wind rushed into him as he ripped apart the fabric of his skin, drying up his blood, his organs, his bones. He grabbed his stomach, his kidneys, his lungs. His tibia, his ulnar, his Adam’s apple. Piece by piece he pulled himself apart, and let the cave suck every part of him into the absence, leaving no visible trace. 

He had become Nothing itself, as close as any human could get. Nothing had chosen him, turned him into a shadow, a vapor, a prophet. Thief of Everything, giver of Nothing.

He was Nothing made present, made malleable. And once he relegated everything else to Nothing, he himself would disappear completely.

In the end, was that not what he had gone looking for in the wilderness? Deep down, was that not what every human wanted? He knew it was, and he would show them. One person at a time. Until they all understood that, in the end, the only thing they ever needed for peace was Nothing.