There’s a kind of limbo I’ve been carrying. Not dramatic, not heavy—just persistent. It’s the space between familiarity and detachment, between belonging and moving on. It settles in quietly, like fog, and I often don’t notice it until I pause long enough to feel it.
As a nomad, you get used to packing light, not just with things but with attachments. You learn to let places go before they ask you to. You say goodbye so often that arrival and departure start to feel like the same act—just viewed from different ends of time.
And yet, in the quiet moments, there’s a subtle disorientation. I know how to navigate cities I no longer live in better than the ones I’m in. My memories feel more like postcards than personal history. Even the word home feels too fixed for what I’ve lived.
This limbo isn’t about being lost—it’s about being suspended. Not stuck, just untethered. And maybe there’s freedom in that. Or maybe there’s something else I haven’t named yet.
May2025