I have a stone here in my hand made of granite—an igneous, course grained rock formed under intense pressure, composed mainly of quartz and feldspar with minor amounts of mica, amphiboles, and other minerals. What are its components made of?
Breaking it apart, cracking the composition into smaller and smaller fractions to the nth°, we finally find the atom, lay open the pieces and we find nothing—like a Russian Matryoshka doll. Left with an empty shell comprised of .00000001% of “physical matter” in the common understanding.
We are made of barely nothing—a mere projection from the conscious vacuum, gravitational waves, and energy. We are space. We are in fact, energy. The eyes and ears, neurons of our own entity. The whole universe of everything.
Similarly, we find the firm foundation, the rock of ages, the priesthoods, the believers, the fathers of dogmas by errant perception of regionally based experience, and when we break it all down to its core and lay out all the parts we find nothing. It is coated, however, with a large smudge of hope and bullshit.