I am in limbo, in that place between waking and sleeping where one is purified / purged. In my poverty, I will never be able to buy myself out of this. Not even the people who know me, people who have no idea I am experiencing this right now, will ever be able to pray for me long enough for me to declare freedom. And they said one only gets to purgatory when one dies. I am not dead, yet here I am in the middle space of living and dying.
Allow me to describe how it feels:
Days and nights do not seem to be any different from each other, aside from the obvious presence of light. The absence of light does not entirely signify night, nor is its persistence a proof of day. No, there is no night and day. No rest or wakefulness. There is only this sense of being. Just being without meaning or sense.
I am occupying this space either too small or too spacious. I am matter narrowed down to a pedestrian in an otherwise vast street. I am a passenger taking up too much space inside a jeepney, where other people cannot get in. But even with mass, I seem insignificant. A solid that can very well have been gaseous.
If I were a notebook, I’d be empty. Blank pages where even lines refuse to subsist. Where words and colored ink once abound, there is only now emptiness. The absence of words spells out the dearth in story. I am a story, unplotted, unended. My climax is yet to be reached. If I can find it.
And so, where is purgation here? Where is salvation? Where is freedom from nightless, dayless hours? Where are grace, glory, and honor? In this absence, I can only conclude one thing: this is not purgatory. For if purgatory is the middle space of being, then one might as well be in hell.
Oh yes, this is hades, where Your absence is well-defined.
01|18|11 – Tecson de Guia