Life, a Subset of Non-Life : The Absurdity of Consciousness
The Non-Life That Dreams of Itself
There’s a subtle terror that grips me at times — a silent shudder of realization that everything I am, everything I’ve ever been, and everything I’ll ever be, is built on the scaffolding of non-life. Consciousness, that ineffable spark of “aliveness” I claim as uniquely mine, is not an arrival from another realm. It stands in stark contrast to non-life, not as a fundamental departure but as a peculiar reorganization. Is this spark a mere illusion, an emergent perception born from complex feedback loops, or is it something more substantial — a qualitative shift that grants matter the ability to ‘know’ itself? The tension between these possibilities shapes much of our existential struggle, forcing us to confront whether our deepest experiences are authentic phenomena or echoes within a chamber of blind mechanisms. It is an emergent mischief, rising from the mechanical theater of matter — the same matter that composes rocks, dust, and distant, cold stars. The absurdity is staggering : Life is not something separate from non-life; it is merely one of its strange subsets.
I am matter that knows it’s matter. But that knowledge, far from liberating me, chains me. It’s an imprisonment without walls, a confinement within the very rules that birthed me. The philosopher’s pen trembles here, for how do you name something so totalizing — a concept so all-encompassing that it absorbs every facet of our understanding, leaving no outside vantage point from which to critique or measure it? We often celebrate the mystery of life, but when that mystery begins to collapse into the inescapable truth that life is simply non-life with quirks, the romantic glow fades. What’s left is the chill of the abyss. And yet, here I am — thinking, doubting, hoping — a ghost in a biochemical shell.
But perhaps it’s not just me. Perhaps it’s you too.
Non-Life as the Ground Zero of Being
To speak of life’s essence, we must first confront the nature of non-life. This confrontation is not merely scientific, as one might analyze atoms and molecules, nor is it purely philosophical musings on existence. It is an existential reckoning, a direct engagement with the void from which life emerges. To confront non-life is to face the stark reality that all ‘life’ is, at its core, a reconfiguration of that which has no awareness, no striving, and no purpose. It requires us to grapple with the eerie realization that everything we cherish — meaning, purpose, and selfhood — rests on a foundation that never asked for it, nor needed it. Such a confrontation spans physics, metaphysics, and psychology, forcing us to hold all perspectives at once, without resolution. The non-living universe is, at its core, an orchestra of particles obeying laws that do not care for sentiment or purpose. Every atom in your brain has existed for billions of years, and most were formed in the bellies of stars that collapsed under their own weight. Long before “life” arrived, these atoms wandered aimlessly through the cosmos, caught in the blind drift of entropy’s arrow.
And yet, somehow — somehow — these wayward atoms coalesced, forming configurations that began to self-replicate. We call it “life” when carbon chains become ambitious, when they fold and twist into proteins, and when those proteins arrange into cells. But the atoms themselves remain, at their essence, lifeless. Here’s the raw absurdity: the thing that “feels alive” is made entirely of things that do not—like the intricate coordination of a symphony played on instruments incapable of hearing their own music. The atoms in our cells are as deaf to awareness as the individual notes on a score, yet together they create a melody of life. And those atoms — the building blocks of everything we call “us” — do not feel, do not intend, and certainly do not strive.
The Greek philosopher Anaxagoras once suggested that “Mind rules the world,” but he was premature. It’s not mind but matter — unconscious, unfeeling, dead matter — that composes and governs the world. We — our minds, our thoughts, our loves—are latecomers. We’re travelers riding the wake of an unfeeling universe, arrogantly mistaking our “arrival” as some ultimate culmination. But what if life — and even more disturbingly, consciousness — is not an arrival at all, but a side effect?
Emergence as the Trickster God
The word “emergence” carries an aura of magic. It’s what we invoke when we’re dazzled but confused — when complexity erupts from simplicity. We see it in the swarming of birds, in the patterns of sand dunes, and in the glow of fireflies blinking in synchrony. None of the individual parts “know” the whole. There’s no head bird issuing flight instructions. No chief sand grain giving orders. And yet, something larger than the parts appears.
Consciousness, I’ve come to suspect, is no different. Neurons fire according to rules that care as little for “awareness” as tectonic plates care for “cities.” But put enough of them together, and suddenly there’s an “I” looking out from behind the eyes. Emergence is the great trickster — it whispers to us that something wholly new has arrived, much like the sudden realization of an insight that feels original but is, in truth, the product of countless unseen cognitive processes. In human consciousness, this role becomes especially poignant, as it convinces us that ‘aha moments’ are personal victories of intellect, when in reality, they are the echoes of underlying neural patterns synchronizing beneath awareness. Everyday experiences like solving a puzzle after hours of struggle or suddenly recalling a forgotten name illustrate how these unseen processes emerge into conscious realization, reinforcing the illusion of a self-generated epiphany. In human consciousness, this trickster role is even more insidious, as it convinces us that the “self” is a unified, coherent agent rather than a composite of fleeting neural firings and feedback loops. The sensation of “I am” is the magician’s masterpiece — a grand illusion that fools even the one performing it. But the magician’s sleight-of-hand hides the grim truth: There’s nothing “new” at all. The rules didn’t change. Atoms didn’t acquire “spirit” or “soul.” Consciousness is an echo chamber of its own ignorance, believing itself special when, in fact, it’s just more non-life doing its non-life things.
But is that all? To accept emergence as the explanation of consciousness is like watching a magic trick where you’re shown how it’s done — the wonder evaporates. Some, like Roger Penrose, have speculated that perhaps quantum effects are at play within neurons, suggesting that the inherent unpredictability of quantum indeterminacy could contribute to the emergence of consciousness. Penrose argues that classical computational models of the mind are insufficient to explain the phenomenon of awareness, and he proposes that microtubules within neurons might operate at a quantum level, potentially introducing an element of “mystical” unpredictability to mental processes. But this too is a sleight-of-hand — a desperate attempt to save the miracle. Perhaps the deeper absurdity is not that we’re matter that “wakes up,” but that we’re matter that insists on inventing excuses for its wakefulness.
The Absurdity of Self-Awareness
Albert Camus taught us that the most fundamental question in philosophy is whether life is worth living. But I’d reframe it : Is life — as an emergent subset of non-life — worth taking seriously? Camus’ “absurd” is the dissonance between human longing for meaning and the universe’s silent indifference. But if life is simply a reorganization of non-life — not something new, but something re-arranged — then the absurd is deeper than Camus imagined. It’s not just that the universe is indifferent to us. It’s that we are the indifference, wrapped in flesh.
I think of this when I’m alone at night, staring at the ceiling. My heart’s steady thump-thump is no different, in principle, from the rhythmic oscillations of a distant quasar. The “me” that feels like me is no more “mine” than the “fire” that belongs to a flame. It’s just a process. A rearrangement. And for what? Why should non-life aspire to self-awareness?
The easy answer — the evolutionary answer — is “fitness.” Self-awareness helps organisms survive. But “helps” is a misdirection. Life doesn’t “want” to survive. Life, as a subset of non-life, is just a series of local optimizations. Self-awareness is a spandrel — an architectural byproduct — like the empty triangular spaces between the arches of a cathedral. It’s not “for” anything.
So… ?
If life is non-life rearranged, and if consciousness is emergence’s greatest prank, then what’s left to do? There’s no redemption in knowing this. It’s not a cure. If anything, it’s the wound. The tragedy of consciousness is that it’s awake enough to realize it’s unimportant, but not wise enough to fully accept it — like a marionette that becomes aware of its strings but lacks the ability to cut them. Cutting the strings could mean detachment from the need for meaning, transcendence beyond the self’s illusions, or perhaps surrendering to the absurdity with grace. It’s not necessarily a severance of all ties, but a shift in perspective, an acceptance of being both puppet and puppeteer in the same moment. We see glimpses of this in our ceaseless search for validation, our desperate pursuit of “meaningful” work, and our unending chase for legacy, all driven by a futile hope to transcend the very material constraints that created us. Some turn to religion, pleading for a divine exception. Others retreat into nihilism, letting despair take the wheel. But perhaps there’s a third option.
I’ve come to suspect that the only way to confront the absurdity of being a “subset of non-life” is not to resist it, but to lean into it. Not with nihilism’s surrender, but with a playful defiance. I’m matter that knows it’s matter — so why not laugh? Perhaps this laughter takes form in our moments of playful absurdity: when we crack jokes about existential dread, when we marvel at the sheer ridiculousness of our own anxieties, or when we choose to create art and music not out of necessity, but out of a defiant joy. It’s in the comedian’s punchline that turns tragedy into comedy, in the child’s delight at a meaningless game, and in the quiet grin one wears when gazing at the night sky — aware of it all, yet choosing to dance anyway. Why not transform this realization into an act of rebellion, not against death, but against seriousness? To look at the machinery of the cosmos and whisper, “I see you.”
When I gaze at the night sky, I’m no longer searching for meaning. I’m searching for that quiet grin — the one I’d imagine a stone might give, if it could smile at all. Because maybe, just maybe, the only thing more absurd than being non-life that thinks it’s alive… is being non-life that knows it’s non-life, and yet dances anyway. This closing realization ties directly to the earlier themes of emergence and self-awareness. Just as emergence conjures something seemingly novel from the unremarkable, so too does self-awareness compel non-life to witness its own folly. The cyclical nature of this realization — where non-life becomes life only to recognize itself as non-life again — mirrors the recursive nature of thought itself. And yet, in that recursion, there is a dance, not of futility, but of playful defiance. This echoes the earlier theme of the trickster role of emergence, where complexity masquerades as novelty. The dance becomes an act of rebellion, not of denial but of affirmation — an unspoken acknowledgment that, despite knowing the puppet strings are visible, one still moves with grace, humor, and defiance.
Thanks for dropping by !
Disclaimer : Everything written above, I owe to the great minds I’ve encountered and the voices I’ve heard along the way.