I typed a question on a Google Search bar: “Are there sounds inside a vacuum?” It said there are none. It was then that I thought of metaphors, but I stumbled upon a definition. I’m the kind to always hide in metaphors as sometimes, definitions are too forward and the truth isn’t what we came for.
Vacuum: noun, a space entirely devoid of matter. Synonyms: emptiness, void, nothingness, vacancy. The list goes on, but I stopped taking notes when the words reshaped into a language so familiar that I can almost speak them out in choruses.
When I think of a vacuum, I think of a specific place. Or a person.
Most people in law school would agree when I say that one of the adjustments now that the semester is over is our body clock. From three to four hours of sleep, now we can have the luxury of having eight. From the constant anxieties when the clock strikes 6, now we can utilize the moment to have dinner with our families. We gained some more time, compared to the feeling of always being in a rush, of always saying 24 hours is not enough.
Now, finally, I have spare hours for everything else. Sad news is that more time also means more time to think. When I should be reading cases, I’m watching updates of my friends and families’ lives through pictures in social media. When I should be memorizing provisions, I watch movies and relate to the conflicts and the plot holes. When I should be reading, I stay awake and think. A downside of not being busy, I certainly found more space.
It's always good to embrace hiatus: the pause, the silence, the reflections. Of being in an imaginary place where time does not tick. Then it was in moments of hiatus that I thought that the place had a name: a vacuum. It does not have an arc with the name painted on it in big, bold red letters. It is only something you can identify with a single glance. Like your favorite sweater worn by someone else or love at first sight.
Inside the vacuum, nothing else matters but the feeling of seclusion. No distractions, no critics, no players, no noise. In the vacuum, you let yourself die for a short run. You hear your blood pulsing through your veins. You hear the drumming of your heartbeat as it reverberates life into your system. When it is gone, all that is left is the deafening silence. And it is in silence that the real you speak.
The voice asked questions I’d rather not answer:
Aren’t you too late?
What would happen if you tried?
Do you have to tone yourself down to be lovable?
Where will this road lead you?
Do you really have what it takes?
How brave do you have to be to continue?
What if people don’t love you the way you love them?
Terrifying, I know. As much as I hated loud roars of thunder and eerie screams in the middle of the night, I’d rather choose them than the inaudible horrors of the placid. At least in the former, I could be warned. I can come with torches and dull knives. Inside the vacuum, I always gasp for air. I fight and paddle and move around to survive.
The former usually arrives with the coming of the night. Whereas visiting the vacuum has no office hours, it randomly welcomes those who are led astray by their thoughts.
I opened another tab and asked another question: How long can a person survive a vacuum?
The answer was simple: briefly. It wasn’t enough but it shed light on me. No one survives a vacuum because of its deadly conditions. After some moments, one who’s astray would always find its way back where it’s secure. Where it’s easy to breathe. Where it’s possible to scream. Where it’s safe to exist.
There is a rather different world outside of the vacuum. It’s not where you belong.
It’ll pass.
