Liminal

The last few weeks have been strange, full of liminality bordering on apparition, loss and changing shape of light.

I keep finding myself in transit, necessary journeys to necessary places, but what’s catching me is how the light has changed. Fluorescent glare becomes liquid silver. Evening sun through glass turns solid, almost touchable. Even ordinary bulbs seem to pulse with their own grief, too bright or too dim, never quite right.

In this betwixt and between state, as Victor Turner called it, I’ve become acutely tuned to illumination. Light doesn’t just shine; it accuses, it reveals, it hides. It makes familiar faces strange and strange moments familiar.

The blur isn’t just motion; it’s how everything looks when you’re traveling back from goodbye, when you’re suspended between what was and what is. Light through windows doesn’t break your heart—it shows you your heart was already broken, just waiting for the right angle of illumination to make it visible.