10:The Question of Existence

Nullus awoke slowly, his eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling, his body still as if it were part of the void itself. There was nothing remarkable about this morning—no light filtering through the small window, no sound beyond the worn wooden walls. Only silence, that heavy silence which had accompanied him ever since he emerged into this world.

Yet within his mind, there was no calm. A torrent of thoughts surged—chaotic and intermingled—as if intertwined voices were attempting to form a coherent narrative, only to fail each time.

Something was amiss.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to trace his memories, to grasp a clear thread that might lead him to his true self. There was Nullus—that was something he knew. But still, there was something else… something interfering with his self-perception, as if an extended shadow from a past that did not belong to him.

Images flashed before his eyes—memories not entirely his.

A hand clutching a book, faint lights, the hum of an old air conditioner, stacks of papers on a table, a narrow street bathed in neon lights, the sound of distant laughter, the aroma of cold coffee…

Then—

Darkness.

He opened his eyes slowly. None of that was present here. And yet he saw it, felt it—as if it were a part of his life. But his life had never been like that. He had no such past; he had not lived in a world ruled by streets, books, and air conditioners. So why did these memories feel as though they were his?

Is this the life of John?

Is he John?

He tried to find an answer, but there was no certainty. There was only a lingering question, heavy as a shadow that refuses to vanish:

Who am I?

Am I Nullus—the being that emerged from words—or am I John, a human whose perception was distorted by a magical book?

Or perhaps… there was a third option.

Maybe I am nothing.

Just a consciousness trapped between two narratives, between two opposing truths, between a being that should not exist and a man who no longer does.

Slowly, he rose from the bed, feeling his body as if it were something borrowed, as if it were a structure housing disjointed fragments of intermingled memories. It was not an entirely new sensation, but today it was more vivid, sharper. It was as if he stood on the edge of perception, unable to cross over to the other side.

He stood before the window, looking out at the awakening city—the people moving along the streets, each carrying his own name, his own past, his own life. They could all point to themselves and say, "I am so-and-so." But what about Nullus?

If he were not John, and if he were not entirely Nullus, then who is he?

Can one person be two?

Or am I merely a mistake—a deformed, identity-less entity?

But what is identity, after all? Is it memories? If so, to whom do these memories belong? Are they part of his essence, or are they merely an illusion?

Do memories make a person, or is there something more fundamental?

And what if there is nothing?

What if there is no true essence to anything? What if all humans are just masses of accumulated experiences and memories, with no constant self, no truth deeper than the stories they tell themselves?

He felt a sensation akin to being lost, though it was not true loss. It was more like the feeling of someone realizing they never truly existed, yet continuing to move because stopping was not an option.

If John were still here, would he consider him an intruder?

And if Nullus were the real one, what about these memories that do not belong to him?

He sighed, running his hand through his unkempt black hair. He did not expect an answer to these questions, yet he could not ignore them either.

He looked at his hands.

Long fingers, pale skin, prominent joints—yet are these truly his hands?

Or the hands of another, merely borrowed for him to live?

"I'm not John," he murmured in a low voice, uncertain of its veracity.

So, who is he?

It was the first time he felt himself to be nothing more than an incomplete entity, just a name without true meaning—a shadow moving without real existence.

Perhaps, in the end, all he was… merely a reflection.

Nullus sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the palm of his hand, questioning the reality of the body he inhabited. He knew that this body was not truly his, yet he could not deny that it had become familiar. He felt as though these long fingers were his own, and that each step he took belonged to him, even if he had no genuine past in this world.

But John had a past.

John was human.

John was someone who knew who he was.

So, what set me apart?

What made me—Nullus—different from John?

Then he realized something...!

Unconsciously, he had begun to call himself "Nullus." It was not a name he chose; rather, it was a name that clung to him, as if something inside had rejected the void, rejected the idea of having no identity, and forged one for him. As if his mind, in a desperate bid to protect itself from oblivion, had crafted a shield of words—a shield named "Nullus."

"Nullus."

He repeated the name in his mind, savoring its meaning, understanding that the name was not merely a sound uttered from his lips, but a delicate thread connecting him to his existence, warding off absolute oblivion. The name was the only thing he possessed, even if it meant "nothingness."

And then he understood the truth.

He did not need a past to be present.

He did not need certainty to feel himself.

He did not need to be John, nor to be anyone else.

He simply is.

He is Nullus.

Even if he were not truly existent, even if he were merely an idea, even if his very consciousness were but an illusion—it did not matter.

Even if someone were writing him now, even if someone were reading him to give his existence meaning, it did not matter.

Even if he had no real will, even if he were merely moving along in a story he did not choose, it did not matter.

I am who I am.

That is the only truth he could grasp. He is Nullus, which means "nothingness"—that his very essence is empty.

And that is precisely what makes him exist.

This glaring contradiction between being something and being nothing, between being a being and being a void, is what embodies him entirely. He does not need explanation, nor confirmation, for he is simply himself.

And he will pursue his goal, for it is the only thing that gives his very self true value in a world devoid of meaning.