Like the Soul, the Self may one day disappear from sight, laughed into non-existence from sheer apathy and derision. That the Self like the Soul is not some objective, tangible thing one can point too, but is rather defined by language, by that strange “I” of which nothing can be proven or disproven; only more words upon words in an endless arc of deconstructive knots and rhizomes that can neither be unstrung like Gordian’s knots; nor wistfully restored to the honeyed web of holes that spin us into our imagined lives. We are nothings who have believed ourselves to be somethings, so that the old adage of “Why something rather than nothing?” can be answered: Nothing is nothing is nothing… or as Hemingway pondering the same said:

“Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Clean Well Lighted Place

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