The Cedarville Review 2024

THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW 25 Between your bedroom and the bathroom, between the basement fl oor and the landing on the stairs, between your closet and your bed. You don’t know why, but you always run. You can’t bring yourself to climb into bed. You have to jump. You bolt up the basement stairs as soon as your fi nger leaves the light switch. Click. The hallways at night are vacant, almost empty. You are a postmidnight dweller. You don’t mean to, but you lie awake into the pre-hours of the morning. The sun has not risen, but it’s far, far too deep into darkness to call it night. No term exists for these hours between 12 and 6 am. They cannot be labeled. They have no substance worthy of naming. They are simply liminal—trapped between the passing of one day into the next. Already morning, but not yet dawn. Perhaps this explains the human tendency to diurnality. The idea of being awake and alone, with nothing but shadows and one’s own thoughts to keep them company, can be terrifying. Despite being uneasy in the dark, however, you brave it. The appeal of it outweighs the fear. You aren’t afraid of isolation. Contemplation scares you at times, but you engage in it anyway, bouncing from thought to thought until it all becomes too heavy. Your eyelids droop, and you fade off into an unconscious fog. You don’t understand the paradox of your psyche. The concept of liminality frightens you, and yet, you long for it. The mall’s belly grumbles as the air conditioner sputters to a stop. It reminds you of an old man’s smoke-garbled cough. You stiffen, pondering the possibility that someone is watching you. Nevertheless, as you stand between