there is supposed to be a sort of pearlescent twilight beauty to limbo, i believe. that rough hewn, unclear kind of melancholy-flavoured hour of the evening when the sun's rays still lay their golden touch on the world, rendering the everyday magical. there should be a wistful quiet longing, drink in hand, looking out at the glowing rooftops from the window, wondering what it is that one is hoping for. that is the literary way.
the real thing is more dickensian (in the way that he is perceived, bereft of the warmth and wit that imbue his actual writing): all soot and big-eyed orphans slowly starving to death on inhospitable london streets.
and here i am, homework laid out all neat upon my desktop, choosing instead to engage in blogging. writing about feelings... again.
you are kind enough to say that you don't mind; i am honest enough to say that i am bored stiff of the ambiguity. i am an opinionated woman: i usually know my mind and am not afraid to say it. to be rendered floaty and ethereal, all fainting couches and smelling salts, diaphanous robes fluttering in my wake, lily-white hand clutching my throat in some victorian pose of hysterical melodrama, is fucking exhausting. and so i make it into words, hoping to create some sort of sense out of the matter, or at least to throw things out into the world, sans bottle, sans ocean, sans desert island.
and there you are, my darling marmosets, stuck, just like me, in that liminal space between real and unreal, my intended audience. oh what a team we make.