The Void -a third note- .

Your hand slides along the wall, a searching motion in the black. The light switch must be here, right? It always was. Or was it somewhere else? The wall feels cold and smooth, almost impersonal, as if it were not really a wall but an idea of a wall—something that should be there, but is simultaneously being questioned. Your fingers keep searching, groping, scraping, but the light stays off.

It’s only later, when you’re gasping for breath in a silence you don’t understand, that you realize something is wrong. The door, where is the door anyway? You turn around, or at least you think you’re turning around, because the space around you offers no clues. No sound, no contours, no hints of where anything begins or ends. It’s like you’re lost in a void you’ve created yourself, a black hole where all certainty disappears.

It feels like that friendship you once had, but it quietly faded away. No fight, no closure, just the vague memory of where it once stood. You try to retrieve it, try to touch it, but it’s like your hand slips through the wall. Or that time you were in the supermarket and suddenly didn’t know why you were there, surrounded by rows of meaningless packaging that said nothing about what you really needed.

You remember how many times you thought you knew the door, a way out, a place where you could open something and find another world. Like an advertisement that promises you that happiness is just a click away. But when you play that game, make that purchase, seize the moment, you realize it wasn’t a light switch, it wasn’t a door. Just a mirror that you touch briefly, only to be met with your own empty gaze.

It’s the same feeling when you wake up in the morning and open your calendar, but you don’t know where to start. Procrastination, that strange beast, sometimes feels like looking for a door that you can’t find. You know you should be moving, doing something, but you’re stuck, your hand on the wall, waiting for a click that never comes. And while you wait, time slips away, elusive.

Maybe the door has simply disappeared, just as the stars once disappeared from the lighted cities. You can’t see them anymore, but you know they must be there somewhere. Or not? It’s hard to say in a world where even an empty carton of milk in the fridge makes you question your grip on reality. You open the fridge door, you look, and all you see is what isn’t there.

Death has a similar incomprehensibility. It’s not a door you open, but one you know you must eventually pass through, even if you don’t know where it is. Like the vacuum of space: it’s everywhere and nowhere, it seems vast, but it’s the edge of everything we know. A place with no light switches, no walls, no doors—just a vast emptiness that makes us wonder what we’re leaving behind.

And then there are the little moments, like that flat tire on a rainy morning that stops you in your tracks in the middle of your routine. Or the moment you realize you’ve been listening to the same music for months because you’re too tired to find something new. They’re the cracks in the everyday, the places where light should break through, but where you only find more darkness.

Maybe there was never a door. Maybe the wall is just a boundary, a place where you have to stop looking and learn to accept that some spaces have no exit. Or maybe you have to stop looking for the door and start feeling the space itself, embracing what is there, even if it is nothing.

Your hand stops searching. The wall is cold, the light stays off, but in the silence you hear something new. It is not a click, not a door opening, but something softer, something that seems like resignation. Maybe this is enough. Maybe the void is not something to overcome, but a place where you have to learn to exist.