On Hell

People have often described hell as an inferno, an inextinguishable fire where the damned toil eternally to pay a debt accrued during their time on earth. But if hell is the embodiment of our greatest fears and pains, why should it be represented by fire?

The mere presence of light, even among unbearable pain, would imply hope—certainty, even. We would have the comfort of knowing what comes next, even if it means enduring misery for the rest of time. But hell is supposed to be a place where no hope remains, where terror abounds, and uncertainty permeates. In hell, one is paralyzed by fear, unable to take a step in any direction. It’s not a blazing inferno but rather a place as frigid and desolate as the dark side of the moon.

Humans built society to fend off this very experience. We’ve cultivated fire, built torches and gas lamps, and later harnessed electricity to light our homes, towns, and cities. We’ve evolved to conduct our business in daylight and built solid walls to keep us safe and warm once the light disappears from the sky.

These innovations have made our lives comfortable, predictable, and safe from the high-tier threats most animals face daily. Our greatest achievements have allowed us to follow patterns that keep us out of danger, crafting identities that justify our way of living—"Someone like me would never do that."

But this comfort comes at a cost. Even in childhood, we live a sanitized, risk-free, watered-down existence that is supremely rare in the animal kingdom. Our conquest over darkness—and with it, the unknown—has made our minds dull and our bodies soft.

Still, many of us will encounter cold hell on earth. People die miserable and lonely deaths. Whole communities remain isolated from the riches enjoyed by the privileged. Diseases ravage our minds and bodies.

Despite a privileged upbringing, I too have experienced this complete darkness—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Who among us hasn’t? It’s a paradoxical experience: rare, moving, undeniably eerie. One expects light but is deprived of its embrace. It’s the opposite of Annie’s famous ballad. It feels desolate. Comrades may stand beside you, but so too may your enemy. So you refrain from reaching out, not knowing whose hand might clasp yours. In complete darkness, one’s bones vibrate with a primal fear—darkness signals danger. It immediately ushers in an unpredictable future, where death may be lurking just steps away.

Despite our best efforts, we will never completely eliminate the chaos hiding in the shadows. The second law of thermodynamics supports this—we trend toward disorder. It’s impossible to live a life strictly bound to light, routine, and identity. These structures will be tested, albeit rarely for some. And as we expel darkness from our cities, towns, homes, and minds, we’ve forgotten how to confront it. We fall with the slightest push, revealing how unprepared we are for a future that may disrupt our best-laid plans.

I’ve argued with friends and loved ones over this approach to living. Some choose to focus only on the lightest parts of life, not out of ignorance of its counterpart’s existence, but as a conscious choice to deal with problems if—and when—they arise. But they always do, don’t they?

I’ve been told I live as if waiting for the other shoe to drop—that in times of joy and prosperity, I don’t allow myself to fully enjoy the moment. This observation is, in many ways, accurate. It’s how I’ve chosen to navigate my time here. It seems irresponsible to ignore the basic truths of life: after dawn comes high noon, and after dusk, nighttime falls. Why is it virtuous to build a life that can only be enjoyed in the daylight?

Darkness brings uncertainty, and uncertainty is my greatest fear. Fear, in turn, is the architect of identity. I’ve designed myself so that its presence cannot shake my foundation. Like buildings in earthquake zones, I will remain standing when tremors strike. This resilience comes with costs I’ve deemed worthwhile. I’d rather be strong in tragedy than overly joyous in my accomplishments. I’d rather face terror with a battered body than retreat to a life of vapid comforts. I choose to be prepared for chaos and keep my emotions tempered in the moments between its visits. This way, whether joy, chaos, sorrow, or opportunity enters my life, I can respond with clarity, without emotion as a senior advisor.

The person described above may seem cold, dark, like someone you’d avoid at a social gathering. I resent this characterization, even as I acknowledge it myself. But being a student of reality doesn’t have to be antithetical to experiencing joy. Watching the evening news and learning of tragedy doesn’t have to shatter a worldview. Sadness can coexist with happiness. And perhaps this is the crux of my identity. On earth, we experience neither heaven nor hell. We live in the space between, where happiness and sadness are complementary forces, sometimes existing in the same moment.