Full Of Emptiness
Sometimes, after a few months at sea, I would wake up in the middle of the night in a pitch-black room, and for a moment, I wouldn't know if I was offshore dreaming about being at sea or actually at sea. I always felt a heavy veil of disappointment when the realization that I was at sea sunk in. It wasn't the sea itself that disheartened me—it was the monotony of routine, the weight of responsibility, and the longing for the freedom I associated with sailing but rarely experienced in the confines of work. I love sailing, but this was work, and it was hard. One particular night, the quietness of the boat threw me off more than usual. I felt none of the normal vibrations and motions accompanying a ship, the engines, and machinery that are to it what organs are to our bodies. So, I put on my coveralls and headed out to the deck.
The night was exceptionally tranquil. We had come to a standstill, and there was no breeze. The ocean was as still as a painting, a rare and astonishing sight. It was a perfect mirror reflecting a perfect sky full of stars with no light pollution since we were somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. Only those fortunate to witness such a thing can genuinely comprehend its beauty. It was a sight that inspired me, and I savored it for a while before heading to the starboard. An awe-inspiring sight awaited me—a thunderstorm! It was close enough to be seen but not close enough to affect the weather conditions where we were yet. The lightning danced across the sky, illuminating the clouds in a mesmerizing display of nature's power and beauty.
What a humbling sight—like a cosmic slap reminding you of your insignificance! It was as if the storm was a grand, silent sermon, stripping away any illusion of control or importance. I felt both small and profoundly connected, my worries dissolving into the vastness of the night. I am unsure how long I stared until I noticed a train of thought telling me that the universe isn't evil but indifferent. This whole planet and galaxy could disappear, and it probably wouldn't even notice. I looked up and around, wondering why it's sometimes called the void when it encompasses everything. But yes, there is much more space between each celestial body than the bodies themselves. Like in our bodies, there is more space between each particle we are made of than the size of the particles themselves. It's a feeling that fills you with awe and wonder, one that is hard to put into words. And I did wonder what that means—to be more empty, even if the limitations imposed by our senses prevent us from realizing that. As above, so below? Within and without? Where does one end and the other start?
Infinite repetitions of itself, like when one mirror faces another—that's how the universe operates. If you had the power to zoom out, wouldn't you arrive at a point at which a galaxy or a hundred would look like a particle or a single atom? If you had the power to zoom in, wouldn't you arrive at a point at which the micro seems similar to the macro? Each atom is a star with a lot of emptiness between them, echoing the vast void of space surrounding galaxies. This parallel reminded me again of how insignificance and grandeur coexist within us and in the universe beyond. What is "real" changes depending on the rung of this eternal ladder of existence, this complexity climb, this cosmic ascent you find your attention resting at. My mind was rambling; these realizations felt so vast, they kept going and going, only limited by the incapacity of my brain to catch up with my mind. And that gap felt like a void—the irony! That void we all carry in the limitations of our understanding encompasses everything. I'm not sure how long I stood there, my mind galloping wildly until I felt the drizzle and noticed the ocean was beginning to rock. The storm was getting closer, and I decided to head back inside. I felt grateful to have witnessed such beauty; I felt so full, so full of emptiness…
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