Dark Matter

by Blake Crouch

We’re all just wandering through the tundra of our existence, assigning value to worthlessness, when all that we love and hate, all we believe in and fight for and kill for and die for is as meaningless as images projected onto Plexiglas.

Nothing exists. All is a dream. God—man—the world—the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars—a dream, all a dream;

they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space—and you…. And you are not you—you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought.

“When you write something, you focus your full attention on it. It’s almost impossible to write one thing while thinking about another. The act of putting it on paper keeps your thoughts and intentions aligned.”

All the tiny, seemingly insignificant details upon which my world hangs.

If you strip away all the trappings of personality and lifestyle, what are the core components that make me me?

Until everything topples, we have no idea what we actually have, how precariously and perfectly it all hangs together.