The Presence of Absence
I keep coming back to the idea that absence and presence aren’t really opposites. After all, they both come from the same root— to be.
The word presence comes from the Latin praesentia, from prae- (“before, in front of”) and esse (“to be”), meaning to be here, directly in front of something.
Absence, on the other hand, comes from absentia, from ab- (“away, from”) and esse, meaning to be elsewhere.
But both still exist. Absence isn’t nothing. It has weight. It shapes space, lingers in memory, leaves an imprint.
Sometimes absence feels stronger than presence. A missing object, a lost connection, an empty space where something used to be. These things don’t just disappear. If anything, they stand out more. A person leaves the room, and the warmth of where they sat is still felt. Something vanishes, and suddenly it’s more visible than ever.
Maybe that’s why longing feels so intense. It’s not just missing something, it’s sensing it, even in its absence. Like an afterimage, like a shadow that proves the light was once there. Maybe presence and absence aren’t separate at all, just different sides of the same thing.
