Waiting

I'm waiting. I don't really know what I'm waiting for, but I'm waiting nonetheless. Maybe I do know what I'm waiting for. Maybe I'm hoping that the wait will end. Once the wait ends, the work begins, and so therefore I should treasure this time that I'm currently free and able to do what I want to, and what I desire to.

But what if the thing for which I'm waiting for is also that which my heart desires for?

Then waiting becomes a chore, a long slow torture of the soul. Eager anticipation is no longer awaited at every morning. Rather, I drag through the nights, choosing to avoid the mornings, because I don't want to be disappointed by the coming of a new day where no answers seem to come, and I am forever waiting in the night.

People say not to worry, that it will come. Sometimes, I wonder. It is so easy to say things when they aren't in the middle of the situation. Sometimes, it's the worst when someone who's never been there who tries to be understanding. How can one bereft of such painful experience actually even understand in the first place?

It's like asking a lion to decide to be vegetarian, or worse still, a frenchman to abhor france altogether.

The endless adage - is my glass half empty or half full, or frankly, totally empty?

I wish I knew.