“Here is my home, and here is the love of my life” said the hopeful nihilist gesturing to an empty room.
“There isn’t a thing here.” Replied her guest.
The hopeful nihilist looked about, confused. “What do you mean? I see a carpet, and look there is more paint than most humans see in their whole lives.”
“But what of a bed? Or a dressor? Don’t you at least have a bin for your underwear?”
“Oh, what of a bed? I find one when the time comes, when my back starts to ache or my lover finds its use.”
“What love, I see no one here.”
Our little hopeful nihilist smiled and told her guest of the romance she had conjured with space, that bare quiet uninterrupted space within the air.
“But air is nothing, there is nothing there, nothing to love and nothing to leave behind. I do not understand.”
“Don’t you see, the liberation that accompanies the recognition of nothing. There is a power in this the emptiness that we so desperately cover. There is a safety in the notion of nothing that I have yet to articulate, all I can say is it’s glory empowers a drive to explore beyond the sense of the commonplace.”
“But don’t you want more, don’t you hope for something?”
“Ah, you see I have found the clean gray space between the recognition of nothing and the hope for something.”
A pause took the air, covered that idyllic space with a disorientation.
“I don’t see how you can live like that, within such-”
“Sure, I suppose.” Said the guest.
The sweet and hopeful nihilist sunk to the floor. She leaned against that well-painted wall and looked around.
“Maybe it’s a doomed romance, damned to a disastrous ending. But for now we are in love, for now there is no ending. For now the glorious infinite nothingness and it’s eternal emptiness frees me. But you’re right my friend I am a hopeful nihilist, and what is the hope of a hypocrite?”