When I walk with Limbo, we alternate our steps between the paths marked as ‘past’ and ‘future’. First, we hop onto past, reminiscing with romantic nostalgia at what was, not so long ago. We laugh, we cry, we catch the ache of memories in our hands, complaining of its pang but secretly revelling in how it hurts. We recall the flats I have lived in, the men I have kissed, the friends I have shared with, the jobs I didn’t take, the places I have danced in, the decisions I have taken. All of these things, naturally, fall into a camp of ‘for better or for worse’ but Limbo hands me a pair of rose-tinted glasses, insisting on a romanticism that almost certainly didn’t happen but that I’m more than happy to partake in. I balance the glasses on my nose and push them upwards until the past is engulfed in a sticky sweetness that washes away any recall of financial struggles, unresolved conflicts, red flags, hazy nights and decision anxiety. Those were the days, I think, gleefully. Those were the days, Limbo voices, reassuringly. My pace quickens to a skip on the winding path of past, now a tour of what went before. To my left and to my right, screenings of previous birthday parties, electric first dates, successful work projects and wholesome weekends play enticingly on loop. I can’t take my eyes off of the film of my living, swimming in beautiful nostalgia so deep that for a moment, I forget the tense of my reality. To remember what was is so full yet so fleeting, so tangible yet so surreal, so joyful yet so painful. Before long, the tears that have gathered in gratitude at my pupils prepare to jump onto my cheeks with a sudden twist of intention: not in delight but in dread. Have I chosen well? Did I make the most of what I had? Should I have held onto what I’ve let go of? Acknowledging my emotional U-turn, Limbo tells me things will never be the same again – and I believe her, wholeheartedly.
As I look over my shoulder, hopelessly seduced by the former, I hardly notice that we have now taken a turn onto a new track altogether. The path of future is vast and surreal with a course so ill-defined that my legs begin to shake under the weight of all its possible directions. Overwhelmed and open-mouthed, I look to Limbo for reassurance but she quickly shakes her head in a motion of regret. She proceeds to slowly take my arm in hers, squeezes my hand and takes a deep breath in as if she’s preparing to deliver a speech to an audience of opposition. The thing about the future, Limbo says, is that there are a hundred possible outcomes but only one that can truly happen. I look up at the towering snakes and ladders before me and a chorus of overlapping voices of ‘if this, then that’ flood my fragile mind. I try to catch the phrases, one by one, but the equations get louder and louder until my senses are paralysed with white noise. My head hurts. Tentatively, I place one foot in front of the other, peering around the corners of the different routes laid out before me. The scenes each hold a jarring juxtaposition of joy and sadness, clarity and confusion, wins and mistakes. I attempt to calculate which avenue appears most blissful, but right here and right now, it’s impossible to decipher. To imagine what will be is an insatiable daydream that circulates the euphoric taste of hope with the sickly touch of fear. The wrestle of these interchangeable notions make home in the pits of our stomachs, some days soaring with expectancy and others dropping with doubt. Before long, the lure of options runs rings around me and my body sways in indecision. How can I be sure of what will make me happy? Will I change my mind? Do I really know what I want? Limbo tells me that whatever happens, I’ll probably make the wrong choice – and I believe her, wholeheartedly.
The load of what I have witnessed rests on my shoulders so heavily that my body gently collapses until I am sitting, defeatedly, on the floor. I draw my legs into my chest and place my chin on my knees, enjoying the relief of a physical pause but tormented by the push and pull of my conscience. Limbo places her hand on my back. I shake her off immediately. With scrunched up face, I contemplate the purgatory of my existence, walking the shaky tightrope between past and future, until the stormy clouds of dilemma finally begin to part. What if the stance in-between isn’t a tightrope, but a spacious, third road? I spot the path of present in the distance and jump to my feet. Without hesitation, I wave goodbye to Limbo, half-smiling in appreciation of her company and half-frowning as I sober up to her games. Without looking back, I run forwards and arrive at my final destination. The path of present is simple, unimpressive and sort of mundane. I breathe in the air of its stillness, mentally dismounting the taunting seesaw of wasn’t that perfect versus wouldn’t it be nice. As I pace the road of now, a fog appears both behind and in front of me, shielding my view from what was and what will be. I feel the threat of regret and demand for decisions fade away, releasing my feet to wander upon the tangible reality of the ground beneath me. To walk in the present is rhythmic, familiar and overflowing with tiny details that I’d never noticed before. With every step, I take in something new that had previously drowned in the whirlpool of my big picture reflections. I am not eternally resolved, I think, acceptingly, but I am momentarily relieved. Here, in the present, the only questions left to ask are beautifully ordinary: what should I wear today? When’s my next meeting? Who do I want to see tomorrow? Something tells me that everything will work itself out – and I believe it, wholeheartedly.