Neither Here Nor There: My Life in the In-Between

I am neither purely existentialist nor nihilist. The world is neither meaningful enough for me to feel optimistic, nor meaningless enough for me to await its end. I do not know. Therefore, I cannot claim to be an absurdist either. The world hovers between meaning and meaninglessness.

When the universe is not entirely devoid of meaning, the three labels—nihilism, existentialism, absurdism—each rooted in some flavor of meaninglessness, start to slip from your shoulders. And yet, I resonate more with the second part of absurdism than existentialism. What do I mean?

It is precisely when I believe everything is utterly meaningless that a particular sense of beauty and inspiration appears—like a majestic, haunting melody—tickling the cells in my fingertips, urging me to write and write.

And it is exactly when I convince myself to fight harder for life that the most irrelevant and absurd emotions take over, whether sparked by something brutal or by no reason at all.

So I am not in a position to label the universe either meaningful or meaningless. What I do know is this: to continue, to flourish even momentarily, I must open my eyes to the smallest details and smile—right here, in this very moment.

A smile born too soon, in the depths of uncertainty, might someday evolve into a gentle, soul-cleansing laugh. Maybe. But there is no certainty in a world that constantly dances along a shifting spectrum.

I cannot, by trusting my eyes alone, label this world chaotic or senseless. But in terms of how this world relates to me, I can surrender certainty. And I don't know how to feel about that—happy, sad, indifferent, or some unnamed emotion.

In fact, we can never truly go back in time. It is not we who complete the past—it is the past that arrives, unexpectedly, to complete us. It is the universe’s own history that evolves, not the individual. So, the idea that humanity has the right to judge the world’s meaningfulness is almost comical. We are not the sole agents in this infinite spiral.

The search for meaning may be meaningless—not because the universe is meaningless, but because it cannot reveal its truths to us in full. Our capacity is limited—intellectually, emotionally, spiritually.

And so, I cannot complain about the involuntary obstacles life throws at me—

because it is precisely those moments, when my mind is forced to engage with something it doesn't quite love, that my deepest writings are born.

Maybe one day, meaning will arrive on its own.

Maybe death is that meaning.

Maybe...

شاید مرگ، همان معنا باشد.