Limbo

Kept to myself, lately. Circumstances of my life prompted me to it. An intense self-observation and acute self-examination phase, punctuated with rows and rows of escape to my personal knitting haven.

Limbo, but insulated with myriads of bright and lush strands of yarn. Sadness, yes, but not sad to its core. Curiously hollow. More of a salutary purging of the bulging abscesses, giving way to a renewed sense of self seeping through every pore. And then, the sharp shriek of consciousness cutting its way through layers of resistance and aborted persona.

I longed for boundlessness, like that eternal and ethereal moment found in perfect balance at the junction between the in-breath and the out-breath. Space without form, without intent, without weight. Self as whisper. An intimate cocoon that I lovingly spinned around my sorrows and disillusions.

Nine months have passed. And I floated, and I swam, and I slept without dreams.

Some bystanders felt sorry for me. I didn’t. For in silence, I found some paths of atonement. And knitting bestowed me with the needed solace.

So be it.