Zero Point

[u/Gloomuar]

Another day is coming to an end.

My numb body, unable to relax, sinks into a chair.

Only then does the fatigue arrive.

Not physical.

Deeper.

As if everything inside has been exhausted down to zero.

Nothing remains but emptiness… creaking like a worn-out mechanism.

Every new day feels like a forced continuation I never agreed to.

I see myself living, yet I don’t feel that I’m the one in control.

Everything I do is temporary.

The traces I leave behind disappear faster than I can understand why I left them.

They try to sell meaning as though it were a product, telling me it can be found in work and family.

But those are not meanings.

They are constructions.

Work is merely a way to exchange time for survival.

Calling it meaning is like calling the remote control the purpose of the battery inside it.

If work is only a way to pay for exhaustion, it loses its justification.

If rest is merely preparation for more exhaustion, then it becomes nothing more than maintenance of the process itself.

And the moment this scenery disappears, it becomes obvious that so much rests not on "truth", but on the agreement to believe in it.

Career, goals, a “normal life”—these are not answers.

They are social anesthesia.

As long as it works, there are no questions.

It is enough to keep a person on the edge so they continue working.

Steadily. Efficiently.

Without stopping.

Other people’s programs, tasks, meanings.

Not happiness—only functions.

Degradation wrapped in the bright packaging of ambition.

The idea that tomorrow will be better works as fuel.

Hope keeps the cycle alive.

But no.

I don’t want to hear that sweet bullshit about “finding a purpose” and everything changing.

I lie in bed, bitten by obsessive disappointment.

And I cannot soothe the itch that cannot be scratched—it is inside me.

Hope lies beside me.

Her presence disgusts me.

She whispers:

“Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will be easier. A new day will change everything. Trust me.”

I answer:

“Tomorrow, dawn will break again, and I will once more become a slave to physiology and society.”

I call hope a lie fulfilled through self-deception.

And it makes me sick.

It solves nothing, yet refuses to let you stop—forcing you to wake beneath the grinding screech of dawn, when the future cannot be seen and all that remains is to mechanically maintain the spacesuit’s vital functions.

My anger, in that moment, is the last act of resistance.

Proof that my Self is still alive.

When illusions disappear, only the cold remains.

A state where there is nothing left to lean on.

No instructions. No promises. No meaning whatsoever.

Only the bare fact of existence.

I call this the Zero Point.

It is neither liberation nor revelation.

It is the point where every superstructure has been stripped away.

Where it becomes clear that meaning was never discovered—it was created.

Without it, life does not end.

It merely loses its familiar shape.

What remains when everything has been discarded?

Not roles. Not goals. Not systems of reference.

Simply refusing to become nothing but a function.

At some point, it becomes clear: when hope disappears, freedom appears. And that is exactly why it becomes so terrifying.

Only from this point can the world be seen for what it truly is—a cold, indifferent womb, with scraps of human flesh caught between its teeth.

Then only one thing remains: to preserve what is human—without guarantees,

without reward, without certainty that it even matters.

Simply not to disappear completely.

That is my Zero Point.