When I look back at this life
I will remember it as the one
Where I waited for something,
For everything, for years.
The lifetime where the illusion
Of immediacy was just an illusion,
A fiction of fiction,
And a way of convincing myself
That I had not in fact waited
For the ‘right time’ anyway,
Which in itself had taken ‘time’ to arrive.
Was I supposed to learn patience?
Well I didn’t.
Was I supposed to be humbled by
The lesson of tolerance?
Well, not that either, but humbled I am,
More accurately than that,
Bored, bored of waiting,
Of sitting in the familiar Universe-issue
Plastic chair next to others who wait,
In a seemingly eternal line,
Waiting for nobody or something.
Not even bored, but utterly despondent,
Completely fed up with
Hanging around, killing time,
Waiting only, it seems for time to kill me.
Time with its rigid structures,
And penchant for division.
Time with its insistence on distance.
Time that proclaims to be wise and innocuous.
Time for time’s sake that wastes my time,
Making me wait for something, some one
Who was never there to begin with.
Like a promise floating on the breeze;
Like grains of sand that blow elsewhere,
Who knows where;
Something or some one whose presence
Was made tangible by absence.
When I look back at this life,
I will not regard it with fondness,
With the unrequited but poetic desire of a
Lifetime spent wishing, hoping
For dreams to come true,
I would wish to forget that I’d waited at all.
Life is for living and giving,
Not for waiting and baiting,
Or craving and saving.
It is meant to be grabbed by the coat-tails
And pulled along misadventure,
With screams of delight and pockets
Full of memories and keepsakes,
And treasured moments that. never. end.
My next life will be that.