In The Waiting Room

Flickr / Broderick
Flickr / Broderick
Read slowly.

The clock ticks but it means nothing to me. This is what it’s like to be in waiting. I have a lot of work to do though, because there is always work to be done. But I sit here fidgeting, checking the date, more fidgeting, standing, sleeping, all the while anxious; in waiting for what is to come. You see I come from a time where we dread waiting, we dread not knowing, the uncertainties, the unfinished emotions, the time that passes; the body in one place and the mind in another. I come from a time where we fear waiting; the waiting, we think, will kill us.

Time doesn’t stand still but moves on. And life is time. I continue to check the clock but I haven’t moved. Days, weeks, months have passed but I haven’t moved. Yet time has passed. Every day feels like the last, the past and the present are intertwined because I’ve been here before. Not by choice, not by will, but by the accident of life, I’ve been here before. A candle flickers in the darkness; it’s my only source of light. I fidget, I continue checking the date, more fidgeting, standing, sleeping, now living in the waiting room. I am waiting for the door to be opened.

In the waiting room, you can’t open the door, the door must be opened from the other side. Patience or impatience makes no difference. But I keep checking the door eagerly – I glance, I look away, I glance, I look away again. “Is this what purgatory feels like?” I wonder, and glance again. Still fidgeting, still checking the date, more fidgeting, standing, sleeping, the waiting has become too much like home. “Get me out of here,” I cry. “Get me out of here,” I whisper. But no one opens the door. Tears roll down my face; the waiting is overwhelming.

Still, the waiting hasn’t killed me. But I can see out the window – a catastrophic beauty where there is both light and darkness, but anything is better than here. And I know this won’t be my last time here, but this time has been longer than usual. I ought to get back to my work though; there is always work to be done. And it keeps me busy; it keeps me sane. Less fidgeting, less checking the date, less fidgeting; but still standing, still sleeping. I know the door will open. But for now I am in the waiting room. And the clock ticks, but it means nothing to me. TC mark

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