Limbo

How does one begin to write again? If he sits down, pen in hand, and a blank sheet in front of him asking for ink, he could waste the hours away in the frustration over blankness staring right back, over his inability to reach meaning, over the ugly imperfection of displaced stitches between words he attempts to sew. If he sits still to watch the world, these only pass as dizzying kaleidoscopic pictures, and music is as good as a mother's nagging: in through one ear, bouncing around the walls of an empty head, and out the other ear. They brush past cold skin and that is all. All that the world has become is a noisy classroom in insignificant restless buzzing. He has lost his seat at the back. He is in the uncaring middle with the forgettable No-Faces, the good boys and the good girls who eventually leave without the fame of infamy and notoriety, or goodness, prosperity and success, those who simply exist as a result of their happenstance existence, those whose choices are limited to the groceries, or clothes on their back. In what is often tritely described as a colorful world, they have buckets and buckets of gray paint.