In philosophy, there is a great emphasis on what exists. This branch is called ontology, the study of being. What is far less examined, however, is what does not exist.

This imbalance is understandable. We naturally focus on what exists because it is vividly present to our senses. Yet non-existence also affects us deeply, often in ways we fail to notice. Death, for instance—so widely dreaded and feared—is simply the absence of existence in this world. Similarly, we are influenced by people who are not part of our lives, objects we never possessed, and knowledge we never acquired.

Upon deeper reflection, this seems odd. How can something that does not exist still have such a strong impact on us? How can we even begin to inquire into things we cannot directly interact with because they are not there? Why is “nothing” such a difficult concept to grasp?

Consider a simple example: when someone opens a box and says, “There is nothing inside.” Is this “nothing” the same as emptiness in our lives?

If we look closely, the box is not truly empty. It contains air, light, perhaps dust or sand. The box is not devoid of existence. The word empty is used only because of a prior assumption. Boxes are meant to hold things—pizza, old photographs, toys. We expect something to be inside them. When that expectation is not met, we label the box “empty.”

The problem of nothingness arises from this same habit of expectation. For example, saying “There is no one sitting on the chair” sounds perfectly normal. But saying “There is no one sitting on the blender” feels strange. Why? Because a chair is meant for sitting, while a blender is not. Our perception of absence depends on what we expect to be present.

The same mechanism operates in our experience of death. We do not mourn people we have never known, but we deeply mourn those who were once part of our lives. Children who lose one or both parents at an early age often feel this absence more intensely. Just as we assume a box should contain something, society assumes a nuclear family—two parents and children. When that expectation collapses, the resulting absence becomes painful.

This kind of nothingness is perceptive emptiness—an absence created by the mind, shaped by social norms and expectations. It is not pure nothingness.

Pure nothingness, if it exists at all, would contain absolutely nothing. It cannot be perceived by the senses but only conceived by the mind. Perhaps such a state existed before the beginning of the universe. But this raises another question: can space itself ever be empty, or is space already a form of existence?

This leads to a deeply unsettling idea: is absolute nothingness even possible? To define “nothing,” we seem to require “something” as a reference point. And if something is always needed to define nothing, then perhaps absolute nothingness can never truly exist.

Death makes humans uncomfortable precisely because it appears to erase everything a person is—their thoughts, memories, and identity—leaving behind only an absence. Even that absence is temporary, as those who remember us will eventually die too. This realization is naturally frightening and depressing.

Yet we should not avoid thinking about nothingness simply because it unsettles us. Questions about death, absence, and meaning are essential if we want to understand existence itself. Avoiding them does not make them disappear. In fact, nothingness may not be the opposite of something, but rather the condition that allows something to exist at all.

Ultimately, this inquiry leads us to the origin of existence. If we wish to understand how the universe began—how something could emerge from nothing, or whether nothing ever truly existed—we must be willing to look directly into this void. However unsettling it may be, facing nothingness is necessary for understanding reality, existence, and ourselves.