Cheese Is the Only Thing That Reminds Me I'm Alive

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Cheese.
Cheese who?
Cheese is the only thing that reminds me I'm alive.

There are days when time folds in on itself, when the hours become indistinguishable, and you can’t remember if it’s Monday or some abstract echo of one. You open the fridge not for sustenance, but for meaning. And there, in the fluorescent hum and quiet cold, sits cheese. Bright. Waiting. Indifferent.

You don’t make nachos because you’re hungry. You make nachos because you need to feel something. You layer the chips methodically, because it’s the only structure your life currently offers. You scatter shredded cheese like it might arrange itself into purpose. You broil it, not to melt it, but to transform it into something that cracks when you bite down—proof that some things still change under pressure.

The first bite doesn’t taste like comfort. It tastes like defiance. The burn of hot cheese on the roof of your mouth is the most honest sensation you’ve felt in weeks. And for a fleeting second, you think: maybe this is enough. Maybe this is what existence is. Heat. Crunch. Salt. Silence.

There is no meaning. But at least there’s cheese.