Limbo

“What do you really love,” he asked. It's safe to say, a question as simple as that, as clichéd as it may have sounded, hit me like the heaviest truck. A part of my mind was scurrying around to find the answer. Another part of my mind knew. Some part felt the need to dismiss. To suppress. 

“What do you really, really love?” he repeated. I wanted to laugh it off, you know? Ridicule the entire thought. Shake my head incredulously. Pretend to be sure of me like I had done for as long as I could remember.“Is there something you have, if taken, you won’t be able to survive?” And just like that, I was encapsulated in this bubble trying achingly hard to recollect something I had done, anything I had done, or that I do that I couldn’t live without. It almost made me mad. 

Made me furious how everything you’ve ever done, everywhere you’ve been, and every piece of you that life has taken, 

ultimately boiled down to one question. 

One bloody question. “What is it that you really love and cannot live without?” I knew it and I didn’t. “Don’t you have an answer, anything to say?”I didn’t want to tell him. I turned away so he wouldn't notice the look of despair. and chose to dissolve right back into this dreadful, comfortable limbo.