Bookmark #583

Sometimes, I sit in the silence of a track that plays on repeat, to the point that it fades into the background noise of what is the last hour of the day. I sit, and I make a mental inventory of how this life is a dream come true, and when I cannot keep up with the blessings around me, I start counting them using the partitions on my fingers, and the more I do this, the more glaring the loudest question in the otherwise mostly silent room becomes: who do I share it with? And they tell me I still have time, and I know this; I know it all too well. Who are they to tell me there is still time to be patient when I am the one who spends these days waiting patiently? It is the person who waits who bears the brunt of it. It is the person who waits who has lost the years and never made the memories they so deeply desired. Those who wait spend years watching days pass, good and bad alike; it is them, and only them, who know, who keep track of the things that did not happen, and these, too, they count on their fingers like they do their blessings. They know how blessed they are far more than others, more than anyone else can tell them for they count them over and over because there is nothing else to do, nothing else at all.

Let us be impatient for a day or two, or a week or more. It is only natural. Only the one who waits knows the silence of the good news and the loudness of the bad. Only the one who waits knows just how much time has passed. Yearning is no easy ordeal. Let us writhe and rant now and then. Winters pass, and the person who waits and sits in the same chair must get up and throw a tantrum now and then lest they forget they are waiting at all. It takes many summers to thaw a frozen soul, and souls are frozen far too often; we must stay warm, and we must limber up. Who knows how many years one has to wait to be able to talk about one’s day casually, nonchalantly, or at all?

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