A constant state of limbo

Painting depicting a representation of

Hieronymus Bosch

Painting depicting a representation of “limbo.”

It stares from the corner of my room,

threatening—hovering in its own monotonous way.

 

It doesn’t appear with a certain color,

nor does it apparate with feeling,

since I don’t really know how to feel about it at all.

 

However, when it does encompass me, I feel it.

I feel for it.

I feel with it, within it.

I feel—that is all I know.

 

But it isn’t mysterious, it doesn’t take that sort of form.

All I know is that it’s there.

When it’s gone, wherever it goes, I know it will come back.

I don’t know why, or how, but it is the only thing that always finds its way back.

 

It’s not because it cares or anything;

no, it is not capable of caring.

This I know, but I also know that is not capable of not caring, either.

 

It leaves me feeling hollow and full all at the same time.

Empty and abandoned with the lack of answers,

yet fulfilled by the excuses it allows me

to talk myself out of things.

 

It is stuck in limbo,

I am stuck in limbo,

this is all I know.