sometimes i burn sticks in my fire pit, and think about stuff 2

When i get the chance to burn the branches, sticks, and twigs that fall in the yard. I take it. I collect them in my fire pit. On a nice clear nearly windless night, like last night, I burn them. and then i think about the type of stuff you just don't get a chance to think about without an excuse to be quiet. I started the night using my day's experience to refine and bulletproof my nihilism, but the more I looked into the fire, I saw nothing, and rather than puffing up my nihilistic claims, the nothing was not the nothing that is described by the lack of something. but rather the nothing that has no desire to have anything. the beginning and end of all things. the nothing that is everything, and the nihilism that has meaning. i like my fire pit, where else can you clearly see nothing?