The waiting in front of the traffic light, looking at the motionless pedestrian stripes that await our steps.
The void before our turn comes at the post office, between one number and the next. In the silence amidst a thousand different voices, each with its own thoughts and its life that rushes away like a swollen river.
Today, these waits seem heavier than ever, as if the space between them has become unbearable, as if waiting were a problem. As if the void, which has always existed, is now an uncomfortable housemate, one we neither want to see nor hear.
Everything must happen immediately. And if it doesn’t happen, we absolutely must have something to do, to act, to get something in return: endorphins, joy, sadness, excitement. That void cannot just be empty, it must have a purpose or satisfy us.
As if we were in control of a direction, even when the direction of what we see and listen to, of videos of strangers on the other side of the world, depends on others, on algorithms shaped by our hunger, algorithms that mimic the color of our desires.
What is it about that void that scares us? Of that silence that welcomes us when we are alone where the world moves around us, with people walking, talking, thinking, and acting, each with another world, a broken heart, a fear of being seen and accepted, with a scream hidden under the skin that just wants a hug but in the end it’s easier to scroll past another raw news story, another funny reel, another exciting photo.
To be elsewhere so the void doesn’t exist, so that the moment where we are entirely alone, with ourselves, forced to be in the world, is annihilated. And everything becomes a continuous flow, a Panta Rei but without awareness of it, without presence, flowing cuddled by a river we did not choose, watching a sky whose colors we do not recognize.
I don’t know if this applies to everyone. I know that sometimes, in that void and in that silence, I am afraid of feeling everything.
All the complexity of the world and of my feelings, which overflow and blur together, preventing me from understanding what is happening. Hate, joy, fear, emotion, affection, loneliness, their borders disappear and become a loud, powerful orchestra whose sound speaks to me from the depths, but whose words I do not comprehend.
And the temptation to scroll again is always strong, the temptation to lower my head and look at another story, read another news item, watch another video. To lose myself, to not feel, to not listen, to not be there, in that moment.
And yet, I remember.
I remember myself, waiting on the rough sofa of the house, and the scent of the schiacciata in the oven taking shape and flavour with the oil, and how sweet that wait was.
I remember waiting for a friend’s visit, and how that void was full of infinite energy and emotion, of trepidation and anxiety.
I remember watching the streetlights on winter evenings, with my breath fogging the glass, watching the car lights as if I could distinguish those of my mother’s car, and waiting, counting them, and then running to hug her and smelling the fresh scent of winter mixed with the smell of smoke on her long, dark coat.
Since when did these voids lost the emotions that accompany every wait? The trepidation for what will happen, that potential energy that reminds us that anything can still happen and that the void is just the prelude to another, beautiful, new beginning?
The space between things is still the same. The void and its molecules have not changed. But we… we did.
(this is the translated version of my original Italian post)
