實存不在

The pain experienced by those standing on the boundary of existence is a suffering that belongs exclusively to those who have reached the existential question itself. To Nietzsche's words, "God is dead," some might not care at all whether God is dead or not, but for someone, God is the absolute standard for everything—the purpose of life, mission, reason, the gauge of right and wrong, and the basis of choices. However, because God has died, only a hollow and withered human remains, one whose purpose, mission, reason, standard of justice, and all foundations for choices have utterly collapsed. The existential crisis was truly brutal, and above all, it was akin to draining the very vitality of the soul.

For this very reason, I desperately wished for God to be alive. Even if God were dead, the desire to chase after His traces and hope He might be alive, even just a little, was based on a longing to grasp at even the tiniest shred of hope. Yet, the traces of God within me vanished the more I came to know Him. My affection for this world has also scattered into ash like a pile of cinders. Money, honor, love—not a single thing is anything but hollow and trivial.

I often see grotesque monsters who style themselves as gods, decorating their entire bodies with gold and jewels. Beings like the King of Thailand. They live that way generation after generation, possessing an immense amount of wealth and power, but I would rather ask to end my current life right now than to live as they do. If all they do with that colossal wealth and power is force people to crawl on their knees when approaching them, and paint their entire bodies in gold to conceal their rotting flesh, can you even begin to imagine what horrific filth is contained within that soul?

My soul is empty. It is so thoroughly vacant that nothing appears great, and nothing feels brilliant. Desire has withered away as if snow had melted. The things people want have lost all meaning to me. It feels as if everything has turned a shade of gray. Only the residue of nature left within me struggles to fill my hunger and fatigue. Having become a hollow and empty human being, I live each and every day in agony, wondering what on earth I am supposed to live for.

Only two paths remain for me now. To destroy myself, or to destroy all the objects of my wrath that I wish to demolish. Only two forms of wrath are contained within me. The wrath to destroy myself is frozen stone-cold. The wrath to destroy the world is heated burning-hot. To me, only this wrath serves as the force that sustains my life. The emotion of human nature. Only a turbulent wrath remains, pulling the strings of my hollow shell.

God is dead, and to me, God is more dead than ever, reeking of a wretched corpse. Since the place where that corpse is buried happens to be inside my heart, it feels as though that sickening stench is completely filling my soul. At times, I even envied those in the realm of ignorance who have not reached the existential crisis. I envied ordinary people. No... I envied them, yet at the same time, I loathed them. No... it felt as though I couldn't sense any meaning to existence whatsoever.

No matter how many people I see on the street, I no longer feel any interest in them. No matter how celebrities acquire wealth with magnificent beauty and talent, I am indifferent. I am merely curious. What are they living so fiercely for, just to obtain what? What is it that has become a meaning for them?

At times, I wondered if the love of people might become a meaning. However, love has a double-edged nature. A person who likes me immensely, in turn, makes things the hardest for me. The way they love is what tortures me. The attention and the manner they give cause me distress. Love does not always grant sweetness or happiness. Much love, conversely, contains much wrath, and the emotions of the faceless public shake one back and forth even more coldly.

All those who built the foundation of their lives upon the love of others crumbled when that love cooled and collapsed. To me, neither the love of others, absolute power, nor wealth and fame hold any meaning as a reason to live. I merely swallow only sorrow and wrath, endlessly retracing the journey from my childhood.

Twenty years ago, I thought the exact same thing. I asked God for the reason why I must live in this place. Ten years ago, I asked the exact same thing. I asked why I had to live. I keep asking and asking for decades, but when I rejoice thinking I have found a meaning, I rediscover that the joy was nothing more than an illusion. Even when I find meaning yet again, I realize once more that it is an illusion.

In the first place, neither this world nor God holds any meaning. In a place where absolutely no meaning exists, someone assigns meaning according to the flow of emotions and desires generated by their brain and hormones, and someone else pours out their entire life, thoroughly consumed by it. On this tiny, round marble called Earth, what were they struggling so hard to achieve? If you add the sum of moments of joy and the sum of moments of sorrow, which one would weigh heavier?

What if we reckon this not for an individual, but for the entirety of mankind? As time passes, will the counterweight of this scale of agony tip toward another direction? This space where people become hellish villains to one another, and also saviors. On this cursed planet where no one arrived by choice, why on earth, and for what, are people living?

A blessing belongs to those who have not reached the pain of the absence of existence. Like a human whose pain sensation has degenerated so they cannot feel physical pain, they can construct a life with the blessing of numbness. Has there ever been a life as cursed as this? It is a futile and hollow life. I pray every day. That it would be perfectly fine if I do not open my eyes tomorrow.