I think I find such catharsis in writing because it parrots, more like parodies, the fact that I talk to myself a lot. I carry on conversations and diatribes about nothing. I came to the conclusion of nihilism on my own without being exposed to it through one-speaker, two-sided arguments. It was more akin to despair than what I believe now, but knowing it had a name and it had been mused on for centuries, if not more, elevated me to a place where I didn't have to be in despair to be hopeless, shaping the notion of nothingness into a positive. And if not a positive, then it was like knowing I had nothing to lose.

But, in truth, talking to no one about nothing gets pretty depressing, so even though I reasoned that nothing mattered, then there's nothing keeping me from having things that mattered to me. And while I had found a reason to live, finding that what mattered most to me didn't matter to anyone else kind of took the wind from my sails.

But, uh, I forgot why I wanted to write this, so I'm going to stop.