The Complementary Void

It's not exactly an established definition, but I call the complementary void that space where someone should be, but isn't, for whatever reason. If they had never been there, it would be a regular void like any other, and nothing would happen. But because the person existed, their subsequent absence is noticeable, probably painful, or at least awakens certain feelings that aren't always discussed.

The obvious case of a complementary void occurs with the death of a person, and although I sadly know more about this than I'd like, I prefer not to project my personal experience because, while I intend to address a somewhat nostalgic topic, it's not that traumatic.

I think about this quite a bit because in my historical-fencing (play-with-steel-swords) practice, there's a significant flow of people. In this sense, new arrivals are very noticeable because there's a new individual, and you have to get to know their name and personality. But those who stop coming or leave permanently don't make as much noise, yet they leave this complementary void. What confuses me about this is that some of these gaps aren't so obvious because the person hasn't been around long enough or hasn't left a particularly strong personal mark, but even so, it creates a certain dissonance for me, and sometimes I don't even know who's causing it, but it's there, I perceive it… in all its complementarity.

This makes me think that every single person who passes through this world has their own identity. Some are more striking, others more discreet, but no matter how much social media and companies that want to exploit us try to categorize us into manageable concepts to maintain our habits and sell us their products, in personal interactions we all have a different imprint, a unique signature that won't be repeated, and whose absence is noticeable.

Since historical fencing is considered a hobby, it's normal that commitment to the activity is subject to personal life circumstances, so the turnover of fencers is very high. We constantly meet new people, but we also lose members just as frequently, because the space is limited and hasn't collapsed, and only the rulers of the place knows about these departures.

Somehow, I feel this diminishes me, and I include in this the people I don't like at all. The overall experience is greatly improved by the contributions of each participant, even if it's simply our clumsiness in demanding an explanation from the instructor.

And there are complementary voids that are even a relief… but even in these cases, if the group has made an effort to integrate everyone and progress has been made, I feel a little sad.

But this isn't just a fencing article. I perceive complementary voids in other environments with this characteristic of porous walls, where when someone leaves, they don't leave a way for me to communicate with them. I'm thinking about cyberspace.online, currently the only social network I participate in that deserves mention, where I interact with people who genuinely share many of my concerns, more so than with most of the people I meet in person.

With these people, with whom I form a mass of diffuse particles held together only by this kind of porous wall established by the will to participate and the habit of checking in as often as each of us chooses, there's something akin to friendship. And while I'll probably never see their faces, I feel the complementary emptiness of some of the absent cyberians.

I suppose I, too, have left a complementary emptiness in certain people. I recently left the town where I'd lived almost my entire life, and while some are aware of it, others will simply feel the echo of my absence in those moments when I'd normally be running along the region's paths, but there's nothing there in my place.

Perhaps in the not-too-distant future, I'll be forced to give up the practice of historical fencing. I wonder what kind of complementary emptiness some of my comrades-in-arms will feel, and what I will have meant in their lives when my sword is no longer there. Someday all those clubs I frequent will feel that complementary emptiness where a trans cyberpunk warrior once danced, and in cyberspace someone will wonder what became of me on a list of most active users where I'm slowly losing ground. Very soon I'll be leaving a gym where I've been training since February 17th, where I've made no less than three friends.

I wish things were different.