Spaces

It is a question of crossing thresholds. I’ve been rearranging prejudices for a long time now, under the guise of thinking. It is frightening to contemplate the degree of one’s blindness at a given period. It is like living in a sound-proof room, with no windows. Nothing comes in, nothing goes out. The point where the walls end and the other rooms start is a liminal space; to be crossed over; the threshold. And I think I’m there right now. Shared familiarity pulls me back, draws me in, yet the new promises resound in my ears, emboldening me, imbuing my thoughts with searing clarity. In time, that clarity would cloud over and become mouldy, and give way to a sharper reality, I know. But now, it is a curious time. Old fancies and hopes cannot be denied, yet their immediacy is lost. Green thoughts, budding with newer hopes, are bright, but uncertain. I’m trying to come into terms with this space by thinking out loud. Or, typing it out. As much as I avoid dramatizing each thought that crosses my mind, or each reminiscence that begs to be rediscovered, the events and the thought processes thus retold, betray a weakness for sensationalism.

I’m not the child-me. I outgrew her. But I don’t quite fit into bigger shoes. At times, it is difficult to sort out my priorities, new from old, immediate from uninvolved. It is akin to being ousted from a community, a trusted space, the feeling of being gradually disowned, of ensuing strangeness. Comfort tires out, bourgeoning excitement takes its place, yet there is a fear that the comfort thus lost, would never be recovered again. It is a time of apprehensions. Of misplaced feelings.