Nihilism Poetry Novels & Stories

“Loyalty. Trust. Nothing more. Stand with me. Walk into the new world by my side, and I will never kneel to anyone.” He opened his arms again, void energy pulsing beneath his skin in dark, violet glows. His hair blew wildly in the wind. The cracked city echoed with his voice. “I am Nihareth. I am not a god. I am what comes after gods.” The silence that followed was thick. Then a man stepped forward. His body was twisted, burned by holy magic in some distant battle. “If what you say is true… if the gods are crumbling… then what comes next?”

His form writhed in agony as the light consumed him, tearing apart his darkness. “No!” Nihil’s voice cracked, the last vestiges of his power fading as Athena’s divine energy engulfed him. “Remember me! Remember the sorcery I gave you!” Athena’s eyes locked onto Nihil, her gaze unwavering, as she whispered a single, final word: "Goodbye." With that, she unleashed her full power in a brilliant burst of divine light, disintegrating Nihil completely. The darkness that had plagued her for so long crumbled into nothingness, and the tomb, once filled with malevolent energy, was now silent.

She asks, lost in his eyes, lost in the soft sensation of his touch. "I'm scared of an ending Even a happy one. I never finish a sentence Cause I fear you will not be there to answer. I never end a thought Cause I fear you will not be in the next one. I never feared death Cuse I thought I am imortal. But you, my love Are poison for the Gods." He whispers the poem in her ear like the rest of the world is not supposed to hear the words, like the wind is not supposed to carry them anywhere else. They are just for her.

It was gloriously, profoundly ridiculous. In my old life, every minute was accounted for. Reading poetry was considered inefficient, a weakness. Now, it’s a revolutionary act. My father’s schedule would have me in a meeting right now, desperately trying to save face. Instead, I’m listening to beautiful words that have nothing to do with contracts or quarterly reports. This is the true reward of ruin. The stillness. The slowness. The right to be inefficient. I closed my eyes, letting the deep timbre of Igor’s voice wash over me. He read about light, about distance, about the small, intense world two people create together against the indifference of the universe.

The Editors' algorithms flagged it as a repetitive glitch, but could not delete the profound, unsettling beauty of its imperfection. On another world, a philosopher, whose life's work was a logically airtight proof for universal contentment, abruptly published a single, nonsensical haiku about the loneliness of prime numbers. It spread through the population like a virus, not of disease, but of quiet, generative doubt.

I didn't 'catch fire' as they always describe it. Nah. I just disintegrated. Disintegrated into tiny vulnerable bits that only exist in this world, tiny bits that only exist in these moments. I am nothingness. I am like the swooning wind, or like a hiking rivulet running its course through a green jungle. I am free. Floating in nothingness. I could exist only in this moment and be contented forever. Dripping love, bleeding love. If a second were my eternity i will spend it with you—Amanda

«Where are you? When I need you the most. I'm tired, tired of wishing. I'm sick of hoping, tired of dreaming. I'm nobody, I'm dying, fading, and leaving. No one is for me; I'm by myself People promise to be there, But they all leave. I need your warmth I need you, want you, miss you But I know... All are lies, illusions, Fantasy, and Fake. I'm nobody.» ⚠️⚠️⚠️ Nadazhda was jerked from her thoughts by the cold water pouring on her. The cold water seeping into her opened wound made her lips tremble in pain.

"Poetry’s mind-screwing. It's not straightforward and it never means what you think it means. Always something more profound. Requiring you read it over and over, disassembling and deciphering. I've never been a fan." Josh remained silent. I tried again. "I’ve heard no one ever truly knows the real meaning of a poem but the poet. Would the poet, N.N., care to divulge the true meaning behind his work?" "Some other time." He asked again, "Spend the rest of the day with me?” "I start work tomorrow." "I'll make sure you get there on time. Your car is here anyway." My car. This man’s ridiculous. "I didn’t agree—" "You’ll take the car, Dalia.”

"Reality-Three-Three-Seven hasn't had a genuine emotion in seven cycles. They observe their own lives like watching theater, present but uninvolved." The crisis was different from dissolution but equally dangerous. These beings maintained individual consciousness while losing all investment in it. They knew cosmic truth—that at universal scale, individual actions held no ultimate significance—and this knowledge had paralyzed them. "It's worse than nihilism," Marcus said through integrated corruption. "Nihilists at least feel despair. These beings feel nothing. They've transcended suffering by transcending experience itself." Through our paradox state, we felt the Observer's concern rippling

Honestly, the whole thing could’ve been written by a pretentious fortune cookie, and I’d still have to write about it. I hated poetry. Not the kind that carved its way into your chest, forcing you to feel something real—no, that kind I could respect. I hated this kind. The kind that was peeled apart under fluorescent lights, dissected and drained of all beauty until it lay limp and meaningless. Until it became nothing more than a rigid formula. And I especially hated it when Cristiano Wright was the one grading my suffering. Last night, I had sat at my desk, notebook open, mind empty.