I Will Write My Own Bible

A poem about seeking comfort in nihilism

I will write my own Bible. I will make my own Math.

Science is mine to play with as I please, and I please.

And please, don’t tell me I can’t do these things.

I can do all things, because I am man (alone)

There used to already be a Bible (when I had her) Math and Science had rules and Gravity and History were real (when she had me)

But now I feel, nothing means nothing means nothing means nothing means I am free.

“Oh Lord Nihilism, protect me from the spears of my pain.

Oh Loving Existential Dread, drown me out again like you used to.”

Remind me of the insignificance (of everything) so the specific sound of my heart breaking can join the chorus of nothing.

I can’t die from this — if there is no I.

But while this thing that thinks like me is here (and she is not) It may as well write its own bible. It may as well invent its own math.

It may as well rename hell as “free”