Liminal Spaces

Recently, I’ve been fascinated by so-called liminal spaces: certain environments that feel strangely “off.” These spaces are often deserted, old and forgotten, or possess an obscure, indescribable vibe. More recently, I discovered a wealth of content on this topic—videos, discussions, and even video games. It’s intriguing to see how people perceive these spaces and explore what makes them feel liminal in the first place.

After some reflection, I think I’ve identified what contributes to this uncanny feeling. Liminal spaces evoke a sense of obsolescence, irrelevance, and purposelessness. They seem to exist without any real function, as if their sole reason for being is simply to be. In many ways, this makes them strikingly similar to art. People often joke that something qualifies as art when it serves no practical purpose. Perhaps there’s something inherently fascinating about things that exist purely for their own sake—an empty shell left behind after its original purpose has shifted elsewhere.

Rather than being defined by function or context, such spaces become representations of themselves. It’s as if our minds struggle to process this neutrality. Stripped of meaning, they invite us to witness something unreal, akin to the landscapes we encounter in dreams. After all, nearly everything in our lives serves a distinct purpose. Nature strives for growth and reproduction, while objects like cars and tables are meticulously designed to fulfill specific roles. When we encounter something that resists this logic—something that appears entirely purposeless—our minds falter.

We might feel it shouldn’t exist, but at the same time, we’re inexplicably drawn to it. Perhaps this attraction stems from how these spaces remind us of the absence of meaning and purpose. On some level, they may even echo our own existential fears. Are we, too, alone in the universe? Astronauts often describe the indescribable awe of seeing Earth from space—a feeling that is humbling and otherworldly. While this may seem like the opposite of the liminal experience—sublime rather than mundane—it operates on the same spectrum. Both experiences confront us with extremes: the vastness of existence or the eerie neutrality of purposelessness.

Last year, my fiancée wrote her thesis exploring the concept of the sublime in the context of virtual reality. She even had the opportunity to test some of her theories using the Apple Vision Pro. Her research delved into whether the feeling of the sublime could be experienced through technology or if it remains confined to the natural, physical world. According to her findings, a feeling of sublime can be reached through technology, but it depends on our subjective acceptance.

What’s interesting is that these encounters appear to serve no evolutionary purpose, which is perhaps why they feel so genuine and unique. Our brains seem unable to fully categorize or label them, forcing us to rely on sensory impressions alone. This lack of structure or context excites us, much like art does. It may also explain a common existential concern among the elderly: “Was I relevant in this life?” The alternative—a life without meaning—is terrifying, yet we’re paradoxically attracted to the very idea when we encounter it in liminal spaces. Perhaps it gives us the opportunity to experience these feelings from a safe distance.

Whatever the reason, this contradiction might actually be a key to understanding our consciousness. We fear the absence of function, yet we’re mesmerized by it. Liminal spaces may hold a mirror to our own existential questions, reflecting the tension between our desire for relevance and our fascination with irrelevance. Perhaps, in the end, it’s this very tension that makes us human.