The “Kampina”, the name of the moors between Oisterwijk and Boxtel lies empty. There is silence, under a sharp wintersun. The constant hum of cars in the far distance only serves to deepen the silence. The rain of the past couple of weeks has made large puddles and small lakes on the path. Prints of walking boots, horses hooves, mountainbike tires. Prints that show absence of things that were and no longer are. More silence. I have noticed and wrote about the emptiness before. The emptiness that is not empty, not impersonal. The emptiness that is full of sound, of absence, of silence. Silence that needs to be filled with words and embraces.
There is a group of children in the forest. A small boy is playing in the sand. His attention is with his play. He doesn’t look around him. He plays with twigs, writes lines in the sand. He is sitting there all by himself. There is an emptiness surrounding him. An emptiness like a cocoon, for those who can see it. An emptiness full of silence and absence. That is his world. His friends are calling him, he hears them a goes towards them.
Does a fish know about water?