There is a hole in things.
The inexplicable absence. The piece that does not fit. The nothingness we cannot know.
It is in you. It is in me. It is in all of us, all around us. The things we can’t explain, the things we can’t know, the things we cannot prepare for. That which we can never understand, rationalize, ‘explain’ or break down. That which just is and must be contended with. Its absoluteness both infinitesimal and infinite.
It is every dark, dreadful thought we can’t make sense of, it is every stupid notion and petty cruelty that is a means to nothing except itself. It is all the gaps in our knowledge and understanding of the world, the universe, and ourselves. It is the reality we all contend with, never truly know, never fully understand, always missing something. It is the forgotten thoughts, the fading memories, all the things we can’t retain or get back. Life isn’t the easily explained order, but the chaotic mess of disorder.
The Hole In Things is our broken essence, our darkness, the void at the heart of all of us, and everything, the super-blackhole that reality is surrounded by, the immensity we cover up with our assumptions and ideas.
The hole is important because what isn’t there is just as important as what is. Humanity, people, are defined not just by what we know and are, but what we don’t know and what we are not. To be human is to try and push against that immensity of nothingness, that infinite absence, that absolute void, to be more. To cover up that hole, to fill it up, to ascend higher, that is the human project. That is our essential nature. We make planes, for we yearn to fly. We build rockets, for we wish to touch the stars. All that we cannot do, we yearn to do. All that which is held as impossible, we try and smash, to prove as utterly possible, in our own way, despite our human limitations.
The Hole is forever, it is eternal, and it is the sum totality against which all of human endeavor is built. It is because The Hole exists that we do, in the way we do. For without our imperfections, all our little flaws, all the things we wish we were not, who would we be? What would we dream of? What else would push us to touch the stars, if we were already able to at birth? What would be the pursuit of knowledge, if it was all present in our minds upon arrival into existence? To push up against that cosmic void is our destiny, it is our purpose, it is our journey in life.
And it is not a journey we measure the success of in accomplishments, but in the attempt itself. To try itself is human.
This is what Grant Morrison’s The Bat-Epic