An existential exploration of nihilism and its limits in the scope of the optimism of hope

Imagine yourself sitting there at the keyboard of your computer, typing out strings of words in what you hope is a semblance of sense, and sending them off into the vast void of the worldwide web, wondering whether any of the letters you type stroke by stroke will land on some being’s conscious cerebral cortex, or if those all words will simply float away into the oblivion of the the ether of nothingness, into some dark corner hole of this whole web of interconnection on what we call the Internet, disappearing along with what has been transcribed before in the ebbing sands of time. You are pouring out your heart and soul into this radically epic expression of your mind and spirit, these words inscribed upon the pages of history and within the mystery of time. And you are hoping for a return on your expression, hoping to connect with the mighty cosmos in another human being, to bridge the gap that is between all human consciousness, bridging that gap through the communication held in the very words you type.

What if, however, your words fall on deaf ears, or no ears at all? If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around, does it make a sound? And if your words inscribed upon the lines of the Internet, upon the strands of the worldwide web, upon the sands of time are lost within the sands of time, as the progression of time passes over each word and moves the sands of time along with it, like a wind across the face of the desert, does it matter? Does it matter that you have written what you have written? That it is not immortalized upon stone, like the second set of the now-lost Ten Commandments, but lies broken upon the ground, having been smashed to pieces? Is your work, are your words worth consideration, if they are not considered at all? Does it matter that you have written something, if no one reads it or heeds it or believes it?

What is the point of expression, that is, self-expression, if it is not received by anyone else? Is there a point to it?

To answer these questions, we must ask whether or not the Self itself is worthy to be a receiver, a receptacle of these expressions? Can I accept from myself the expression that derives from myself? That is, is it enough for me to express myself, if only, unto myself? Or, to put it another way, can I please myself with the work of my own hands, my own creation and creative expression? Is self-expression to the Self sufficient to meet the needs of the Self for self-expression and connection?

Indeed, it does seem that if I, the lone felled tree, do exert some action upon my environment, even if it is only internal, I do thereby indeed exert some action, which, it seems, necessarily has an impact, whether only internally or externally. Whether or not my felling is received by the ears of some onlooker or overhearer is inconsequential to the fact that I myself have received in myself the felling of myself. For I am the tree, and I am the end of the tree: what began as the tree and what ends up as the felled tree, both are who I am, if I am the felled tree.

Thus, I need not write these words for anyone to read but myself–and, indeed, I myself need not read them, but merely need express them of myself, for from me and of me and to me is all that I am, and the joy, the pleasure, the meaning I derive from my own self-expression is sufficient to meet that essential need for connection so integral to the nature of the Self. I need others, to be sure, but then again I need not others: I am in myself complete and whole, and to express myself is sufficient in all things. I can be complete in expressing myself unto myself for myself, even if no one else should encounter that Self.