Occasional void

March 7th, 2023

I am in possession of a few things I cherish, even though they don't have much value and they don't even look that nice. They are all old, like this desk I sit at. Old and massive and heavy wooden desk. It’s somewhat beaten down, with scratches here and there and varnish gone in some places. And yet I cannot imagine not having and not using this desk for my work. It shows its age and constant use through the years. It belonged to someone in my family several generations ago and was passed on, cumbersome as it is, and kept for use in my family until it was my turn to have it.

Occasionally I feel the void, but I also appreciate this void in all its refinements. That desk is a solid physical object, yet it is a reminder or a trigger that brings out this void into its full glory. The void is full of people who are no longer here. Full of memories and fragments of sentences and words spoken one time by them. Full of half-reminders of things already passed — triumphs and tragedies and dreams and hopes and of those meaningless moments I think I remember about them. This void doesn't disturb me, rather it gives me contentment of being a part of something.

Of what exactly, I don't know. Of belonging, I guess, to some group of people connected by blood or convenience or other matters which one day seemed important to keep the group together or admit new members to it. I hardly remember their names, their faces are a blur sharpened occasionally by a look at a black and white photograph. But that is not important. That intermittent void doesn't equal incidental emptiness. Far from it. I feel like nothing can disturb me in this void, and lack of disturbances is never empty — for me, that means I can fully experience life and the world on my terms and at my pace. This is an amazing feeling to have.