This article has nothing whatsoever to do with the book with the same title by Russell Standish.
(I wouldn’t have even known about the book if I hadn’t Googled.)
Coming back. The ‘theory of nothing’ in retrospect, is less of a theory and more of a question really.
What does the word mean?
What do we mean when someone asks us what we did today and we shrug it off and say “nothing”?
What are we thinking about when we say we’re thinking about “nothing”?
What does someone really really mean to us, when we get angry and say “You mean nothing to me”?
What is nothing?
A loaded gun, a word pregnant with the deepest philosophies of the world, squeezed together by seven letters.
‘Nothing’ is a convenient excuse, a purdah of convenience behind which we hide the secrets of our life.
‘Nothing’ is the lunch we don’t tell someone we had.
‘Nothing’ is the black hate we don’t always talk about.
‘Nothing’ is the volcano of bursting ideas we keep to ourselves.
Nothing then, is anything but a clean slate, anything but a vast space of nothingness. It’s a mesh of colourful thoughts, zig-zagging across each other, throbbing and vibrating to Beethoven’s Fifth.
Unless of course you’re a rock.
Because as that wise owl Aristotle put it, “Nothing is what rocks dream about.”