Nihilism Wears Black for Everything

Nihilism walks into the party wearing a black turtleneck and a shrug. It doesn’t care if you offer it a drink. Or a reason to live. Because, let’s face it, according to nihilism, there isn’t one. This is the philosophical bad boy that insists everything’s meaningless, even your Spotify Wrapped. And yet, like moths to an existential flame, people keep peering into the abyss, blinking slowly, and saying, “That’s deep.”

Friedrich Nietzsche gets name-checked at every goth mixer and late-night philosophy binge for a reason. He was the one who yelled, quite dramatically, that God is dead. Not that Nietzsche was gleeful about it—he was more like the kid who pointed out the school bus was rolling down the hill without a driver. His version of nihilism wasn’t an invitation to give up; it was more of a dare to build your own meaning from the ashes of the old ones.

But Nietzsche didn’t invent nihilism. That honour goes to a long tradition of people throughout history who looked around and thought, “Is this it?” Russian novelist Ivan Turgenev was one of the first to use the term in the 19th century, and Dostoevsky made sure it had enough emotional trauma to last us centuries. In his novel “The Devils,” nihilism appears as the philosophical equivalent of a Molotov cocktail: idealistic, destructive, and somehow still stylish.

Nihilism also had a political moment. In 19th-century Russia, it fuelled revolutionary vibes. Young radicals chucked out traditions, religion, and even family obligations. If nothing matters, might as well flip the whole system, right? Except some of them flipped a bit too hard, and suddenly you had bombings and assassinations sprinkled in with your philosophical debates.

Of course, not all nihilists are pyromaniacs in top hats. In modern pop culture, nihilism often shows up as that dry, deadpan character who’s seen too much and decided to care less. Think Rust Cohle from “True Detective” or The Dude from “The Big Lebowski”—very different wardrobes, same cosmic shrug.

And then there’s the internet. Oh boy. Memes about the futility of existence have flourished like mushrooms in a damp void. “Nothing matters” has gone from terrifying to oddly comforting, especially when paired with a cartoon frog wearing sunglasses. Modern nihilism isn’t about despair so much as coping with absurdity using Wi-Fi and sarcasm.

Science has had its flirtation too. Existential nihilists argue that in a universe governed by entropy and indifferent to human drama, it’s statistically reasonable to suspect that our sense of meaning is more evolutionary sleight of hand than cosmic truth. A survival trick. Like opposable thumbs, but for psychology.

The existentialists, bless them, tried to help. Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus stared into the same void and decided to make omelettes anyway. Camus, in particular, gave us the wonderfully grim image of Sisyphus rolling his boulder forever and choosing to smile about it. Absurd? Definitely. But also kind of heroic.

And speaking of heroes, Batman might just be a closeted nihilist. Think about it: he operates in a city where crime never sleeps, he’s driven by trauma, he wears black, and his idea of bedtime reading is probably a crime scene report. Yet he keeps showing up. That’s nihilism with a cape and a to-do list.

Even marketing had its nihilist moment. Ever seen those ultra-minimalist ads that basically whisper, “This product is as pointless as life itself, but it’s pretty”? That’s the aesthetic echo of a society wondering if buying another coffee mug will fill the void. (Spoiler: it won’t. But it might match the curtains.)

The music scene has flirted with it too. From punk’s sneering “No future!” to grunge’s “Whatever, nevermind,” nihilism has been headbanging at the back of the mosh pit for decades. It even dances in techno clubs under names like post-nihilism or voidcore, if you’re into that sort of thing.

Therapists, by the way, have learned to make peace with it. Some say that acknowledging life’s inherent meaninglessness can actually be freeing. If there’s no grand narrative, you’re free to write your own. Or not. Either way, the pressure’s off.

So where does that leave us? If nothing matters, then everything is fair game. Love, art, tacos—why not? You get to decide what matters, even if the universe couldn’t care less. That’s a kind of power, when you think about it. The freedom to make your own rules in an otherwise indifferent game.

Nihilism doesn’t knock on the door with flowers and a smile. It bursts in, tells you your furniture is meaningless, and asks if you’ve considered burning it all down. But once it settles in, you can start rebuilding. Maybe with fewer expectations. Maybe with more jokes. Maybe with existential memes.

In the end, nihilism isn’t a wall; it’s a mirror. It shows you everything you thought was certain and asks, “Are you sure?” And if you stare into it long enough, you might just laugh. Or cry. Or start a blog. Or all three.

Just don’t expect the void to care either way. It never RSVP’d.