Thursday, November 04, 2004
Waiting is something I cannot stand. At the bus stop, at the canteen, at the corner store, watching through a window. Sitting on a window seat now, in someone's home overlooking a park, surrounded by rare bric-a-brac that reminds me of somewhere else. No, waiting is something I cannot stand.
A drink is placed in my hand, and I smile. I talk about my life, and what I have done so far, but most importantly, all that I am yet to do. Plans, plans, big plans, hanging in the air like some lost Bavarian castle I remember having seen in some crappy rendition of Conan Doyle's The Lost World. Impressive, I hear, and other accolades, but of course, insecurity remains, clinking with the ice in the rum. Take a sip, she urges, and I do, now swallow, and I do, now smack your lips, and of course I do.
I laugh with someone next to me and muse on what I would do to transform that person. A new hairdo, remove those glasses, horn rimmed now instead of that tacky frame that even the Sixties left behind, colour in the wardrobe, begone (!) rare whites,... and there, I have transformed myself into a modern-day Picasso. A part of me is in that fictional alchemy, and I wonder and I hope, and I hope some more, that I find some mysterious alchemist for myself. I ache for something more - something that may simply be a hug, or a smile, or holding hands in the dusk on a leaf-ridden trail in the park.
But, aaaaa, waiting - waiting is something I cannot stand.
PS: Thank you, Sharon, for The Scientist.
Post a Comment