I was, I figured, still waiting. But the grander question was this: what am I waiting for?
The world is a spectrum. In fact, the world is anything that you think it is because the world is a cradle of everything: of the imaginable and the unimagined, the real and the make-believe, the beliefs that come true and the ideals that we reject. In this long widespread terrain that is the world that we live in along with everything that we get out of it no matter how abstract, what is it that we really wait for? Do we wait for the tangible and jump to the next when we have already consumed it, like a worker living from paycheck to paycheck, only from one concrete aspiration to the next? Do we wait for emotions, the taking shape of which always invisible to the visions of our hearts? Do we wait for things that will happen if we believe, or are we trapped in the limbo of waiting for things that will never come no matter how we try to believe?
I figured that the world is a sphere of constant waiting. We wait for another day, and when it comes, we wait again. Sometimes, we would bask in the sunlight of the happenstances in the now, but then again, we start looking for things and waiting for things the moment the now slips away. We are always like that. We are waiting. For whatever reason and for reasons that we don’t even understand, we wait.
People sometimes become impatient in the whole cycle of waiting. And it is somehow funny. Humans are made to wait, and yet, we tend to give up when, all our lives, we have been waiting and waiting already without us realizing this ironic grandeur in the scheme of life. Some waits are harder and longer and more painful than others, yes, but the dynamics are all the same. We wait. Things come. We wait again. We wait even more. Then all the coming stops. And yet, we wait still.
So, just like everybody else, I am waiting, waiting still. Probably, in the end, it is an individual challenge to make the wait worthwhile.