There is one idea in Buddhism that resonates with me more than any promise of heaven or threat of hell ever could. It is the idea that the ultimate goal of existence is not eternal bliss, not divine reunion, but extinguishment. A return to nothingness.
Buddhists call it Nibbāna — the end of craving, the end of becoming, the end of suffering. In a world where every living being is caught in a cycle of hunger, loss, fear, and decay, nothingness is not a void to be feared — it is release. A gentle erasure of all need, all pain, all identity.
We are born into a universe that demands we suffer to survive. From the moment we open our eyes, we are exposed — fragile minds trapped in vulnerable bodies, tossed into a world of sharp edges and indifferent forces. There is no safety here, only temporary shelter. No control, only the illusion of it. No permanence, only slow disintegration.
Religions often offer heaven as a reward — a place of eternal joy, of fulfillment, of reunion. But even that feels like just another form of becoming — another identity, another need to sustain, another cycle. I do not want to be anything. I want the right to stop.
Nibbāna, in this light, is not a mystical abstraction. It is the one mercy this existence might allow: the right to end. Not in violence or despair, but in the quiet extinguishment of the flame. No more clinging, no more pain, no more being forced to play the game.
Nothingness is not bleak. What is bleak is being forced to endure without escape. Nothingness is where pain ends — because nothing can be harmed when nothing remains.
I do not seek heaven. I seek the right to rest.