Schrödinger’s Cat, or the Quiet Absurdity of Being.

Existence, to me, has always felt like a standard stream of contradiction,
simultaneously infinite, and yet, utterly insignificant.

I ponder a lot between cosmic importance and cosmic indifference.

Some days, I am convinced that we matter.
That to exist at all is an improbable miracle, that consciousness is the universe folding in on itself, trying to understand its own reflection.

And on other days, I find comfort in the opposite. In the quiet, almost dismissive truth that we live on a floating rock in the middle of nowhere. A grain of sand, suspended in an endlessly indifferent cosmos.Nothing matters.
And strangely, that makes everything slightly more comforting.

There are moments, however, where I feel like I am life experiencing itself, not in a soft or romantic sense but in something far more unsettling. It happens in the quiet instant when the wind moves through my hair and I cannot quite tell where I end and the world begins, or in that sudden, almost jarring awareness that this body is not entirely mine but something I inhabit for a brief stretch of time. It happens when I look into someone’s eyes and recognize not just them, but the same consciousness looking back at itself from a different form, or in those rare silences when thought disappears and all that remains is a raw, unfiltered state of being. Even the ocean does this, not as beauty but as something ancient and indifferent that still feels strangely familiar. In those moments, it does not feel like I exist within the universe, but rather that the universe has condensed itself into this small, fragile point of awareness just to experience what it is like to be here, and that is what makes the contradiction so difficult to hold, because something that feels this vast should not be this temporary.

But then there are moments that make you realize how insignificant you truly are. Moments where the sky stretches too wide above you and you understand, with an almost uncomfortable clarity, that nothing about your existence alters its vastness. When days pass without leaving a mark, when entire versions of people you once were disappear without ceremony, when the world continues uninterrupted by your absence or your presence. It is in the quiet realization that your thoughts, your fears, your carefully constructed sense of importance exist only within the small enclosure of your own mind, while everything beyond it remains indifferent. You begin to see yourself not as something central, but as something incidental, a brief occurrence in an endless sequence of occurrences. And in that awareness, there is a strange kind of silence, one that does not comfort or devastate, but simply reminds you that the universe does not notice.

And perhaps, it never needed to.

I say this often, almost like a ritual, when someone I love is overwhelmed by the small violences of everyday life.

“we live in a floating rock in the middle of nowhere, you’ll be just fine.”

Why are you so stressed? We are, after all, temporary arrangements of atoms pretending permanence.

But then there are moments, almost intrusive, where the narrative shifts, where I no longer feel small but vast, not a fragment of the universe but the universe itself experiencing this particular version of being.

I once came across a Sanskrit aphorism, “अहं ब्रह्मास्मि” (Aham Brahmasmi), which translates to I am Brahmaan, I am the universe, and it unsettled me in the most precise way. Because if that is true, then this contradiction is not a flaw in understanding but the very nature of existence itself. Like Schrödinger’s cat, we are both significant and insignificant, observed and irrelevant, infinite and negligible, until we choose which truth to collapse into, and perhaps we never really do. Perhaps we simply oscillate between cosmic importance and cosmic indifference, between meaning and the fragile myth of it, between being everything and being nothing at all, and maybe that is the point.