Limbo.

That fascinating state of in-between, of uncertainty, of being unsure,and, often, unwise. I usually don't mind it. Uncertainty fuels bravery and courage, elements vital to adventure. But the limbo I am in currently I loathe passionately. I shouldn't mind, except that I can't compute an algorithm for these fluctuations, and I want them to stop. Immediately. Stop moving me back and forth through time, stop playing games with my mind. I am no Ender and you are no Colonel Graff. I do not posesses his mental stability, Hamlet's insanity, Shakespeare's written fortitude, Hercules' strength. I am but mere mortal, and would thus much enjoy putting a stop to the uncertainty of limbo. It has a multi-year radius; sometimes it brings me friendships, sometimes enemies. Sometimes I laugh at seeing myself, sometimes I would prefer to weep. Am I at UT, or am I still at Bowie? Where is Bailey? Are they my friends? Are we close at all? Do I exist? The infaiible logic of the priest from Three Men and a Little Lady seems apt at the moment. I am wandering with a map and lost. I change while everyone remains the same; everyone changes while I am stationary. Always upside down, and, worst, without a map. I could manage better with some sense of direction. So I take a few steps forward, them jump backwards virtually immedately. I despise someone, then love him or her within seconds of the anger. Frustrated- but happier than I ever have been before. Fullfilled, but ever-seeking. Slice is behind me, but always before me- where would I be without it? My middle school tormentors- some of which are now my friends, some of which are mutually forgotten- are in my past, but I see constantly in the present. My past friends, whom I can't let go, despite my intense will to do so. My current friends, whom I love, and yet feel so distant from. Everyone, actually. I do still wonder what fitting in feels like. I have come closer currently than before, and yet, I am still further and further away, standing a measure from an infinite rpeat sign to my left, in a multi-flat key. The tone is off, the paradigm shift lacking. Where is everyone?

Limbo is best conquered with a map. A playground of wolven children, a graveyard, a thunderbolt. I love literary allusion. I am delighted to see Card and Applegate play off each other. It's simply gorgeous. I love irony. I adore the falseness of virtually all my friendships, on both ends. I court the relationship of seeming dependence but actual independance. It's quite obvious. When I can cope without speaking to someone for months and it is as if no time has passed, it is confirmation of both bond and estrangement. I am so easily amused by adventurers who are couragous with the spoken word and unfortunate cowards with a quill, by a dancer whose talent is unsormountable but refuses to move by herself. An ego is nothing more than a breakfast food lacking a "g" (and would you like a side of Gibb's free energy with that?). A function of infinite variables, with an asymptote at an immesurable slant. And all I have to do is compute it. Compute, compute, compute. In the end, everything comes down to numbers. So why is it that in Limbo, everything equates to zero? I don't want long run equilibrium, I want substance. How is it achieved? Has it ever been? Do all cakes become spongeous; is all cheese from Switzerland?

Perhaps the fault is merely that of being human. Perhaps a lack of perseverance, of will. I know the oversensitivty will someday overpower me and will bring me to do something that I will immediately regret. Already I lose faith in many on the basis of a single gesture, comment, movement, look- or worse, lack thereof. What faith can I hold when I am so easily forgotten? What fuel stops are there on an uncharted road through total, desolate unfamiliarity? Help. I have no watch to etch that single word onto, but help, please. I know this is a time period of finding yourself, but I am lacking the vitamin E to fix the D; everything I absorb seeps out. Every discovery I make is ineptitude. Every word written is immediately erased, with such power that recovery is both inconceivable and virtually unecessary- or is it that the unachievably is still a worthy conquest and prospect?

Regardless, the hourglass continues to rotate, Haggard's clock remains broken, and the 3 o'clock fairy delivers her hello. In a world where confusion is regarded as genius, where the brave are the weak and the desolate are the adventurers, one wonder what to be armed with- heart, sword, quill, map. Which item is most necessary for survival? Would humanity be a better source of living than creativity? Have words lost all the cunning they used to encompass? Sometimes ups outnumber the downs; but Nottingham is more of a reality than we believe, and so with the lack of rain comes anunending torrential downpour, distant, but invisible in its clarity. Who sees it? Look simply for those with tears streaking silently down their cheeks. They are not weeping; they are the few who feel the rain. Once all is washed, a clean slate is left- and then the true work of reconstruction beings. The question, however, stands- who shall build? And so they went out as the leaped in- fighting.