Waiting for…
Waiting indefinitely.
In the spaces of waiting, the air constricts,
like a room slowly depleting of oxygen, while everything outside that room continues— business usual— all else seemingly oblivious. Time while waiting lengthens exponentially.
And what are we to do,
while our emotional load gets heavier,
anticipation bearing load on our joints,
jaws stiffen,
arms helpless,
relentless mental chatter,
energetic bankruptcy.
And what are we to be with ourselves,
the worried leading the worried,
who carries us when we are breathless and exhausted,
when our phones are both a lifeline and our bane?
Do we close the door or leave it open?
Which keys do we keep?
Some portals are not meant to be revolving.
And when I roam where the wild things are, in the fields of decomposition, the spirits may be intermittently silent. But I have discovered that distance and silence does not mean they are not present. And when I walk a path independently, it simply means I need to dig deep instead of waiting to be rescued, and stand on my own two feet. Walk, they say, walk with us. If you wish to fly, then learn to walk. There is pleasure to be had if you would be open.
Waiting as a weight-bearing exercise.
Waiting as space to meet euphoria.
* * *
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