Everyone is growing with time, they are learning and blooming as flowers would in the eve of spring. And I watch them grow from the distance where I am most comfortable. They are growing and proceeding to a better time. All the while I am in a constant state of limbo where there is no up or down or front or back, and there is no progress because there could be none, or so I hear my voice convincing me. So I stay there unable to break free from my present, their past, because it's tiring. I am tired of trying and I am traumatised by the failures that lurk closer to me than my shadows and so I crawl alone in my ball of stagnation, in the present for there could be no progress or so I keep telling myself. I am tired of the vain attempts of breaking free, the exhaustion it costs me and the lack of fruit it bears. I'm hungry for fruit that ceases to exist. I'm tired of the search for such mythical fruit. And so I watch as the others walk forwards to progress in the safe distance I've defined as comfort as I sat in this constant state of limbo. Waiting, just waiting to be rescued by... something.
Just as she inhaled after her final word someone looked back and extended their arms to her, mouthing something that seemed foreign to her until she heard '...all around the limbo clock'. And like a wave of maniacal fans from a football game who struggled to get up from their seats, the line of people behind that first person began to turn towards her as well and sang in joyful cheer.
Daaaamn I miss sucking at limbo.. :\
On a completely unrelated note, I'm reading (READING!) The English Patient and am facing the difficult task of trying not to picture Willem Dafoe's face when I read the word Caravaggio.. in the painting style of the Renaissance artist by the same name (Caravaggio, not Dafoe).
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