In the Quiet of Limbo

There are nights when silence is deafening.
When I sit with nothing but my own thoughts — heavy, shadowed, loud.
A fog drapes itself over my chest, and the world outside feels distant, dreamlike, unreachable.

I feel as though I’m trapped in limbo — not quite dead, not truly living. A ghost of myself caught between past and future, longing for a direction, a reason, a single glimmer of clarity. I walk through my days as if through a cathedral of echoes — the laughter of others bouncing off stained glass that I cannot touch. Their joy feels foreign, unreachable, and in moments I dare not confess aloud, it feels unfair.

Envy is a quiet sin.
It creeps in, even when we try to keep the doors bolted.
I see people smiling, talking to their fathers, planning weddings, holding their children, building futures I can barely imagine for myself — and I wonder why I was handed so much ache. Why I must wear grief like a second skin.

I know I shouldn’t feel this way.
I know their joy does not lessen mine.
Yet some nights, it burns — not with hatred, but with a yearning so deep it rots the soul.

But here is the strange truth:
Even in that darkness, I still pray for them.
For every stranger, for every soul I will never meet — I pray.
That they are well.
That their parents live long and their children never cry from hunger.
That they sleep safely, without the weight of ghosts or the clawing ache of regret.

Because in the quiet, in the ache of my own sorrow, I have found something resembling love.
A hollow, haunted love — but real all the same.
The kind that aches to protect others, even when I cannot protect myself.

Perhaps that is the curse of those who live in limbo.
We see both the light and the dark too clearly.
We ache for more, yet bless what we cannot have.
We long to be remembered, while already feeling forgotten.

I walk these days with a heart half-buried and eyes always searching.
I do not know what tomorrow brings.
I do not know if I will ever feel whole.

But tonight, before I fall into another heavy sleep, I will whisper one more prayer —
for you,
for me,
for everyone wandering through the mist.

That somehow, in this fractured world,
we might all find our way out of the fog.