The Concrete Room — Liminal Spaces and Tradable Places

Credit to @alan_angelats

I’m sitting on the floor as I write this. My living room (really, my whole apartment) is a massive mess. I’m in the middle of a move, going to a new place, and so everything is packed up, pushed around, and boxed.

I’m in the in-between, right now. The liminal space between the start and the end point. I’m in the hotel hallway, between the room and the elevator. I’m in the tunnel between the store and the house, you get the idea.

The concrete hallway is that liminal point within my stories, a long stretch of pure, perfectly-carved concrete with little bits of paint and plaster peeling off of it in sparse sections. It has no visible light, yet is illuminated just enough for one to see its various twists and turns.

This hallway is the through-point, the place where my characters move from their known world to the one that created it. If one travels down this winding path of dark industrial veins, taking all of its twists and turns, they’ll find themselves at a door. It’s worn down, sitting lopsided in the doorjamb. Beyond that door is a room. It varies in size, varies in layout, but has a single consistent piece:

A desk, covered in papers, messy, unclean, like both the best and worst parts of someone’s life have been experienced here.

I’m writing this from the floor, waiting for parts of my life to reach that next doorway. With each day I get a little closer, with each month, a little more concrete (get it? get it!!), and as we start the fall into autumn I feel like more parts of that hallway are taking shape.

That’s it for today, y’all. Have a good one!