Dismally, I recognise that my longing for you is reminiscent of the distance between us; frighteningly endless and unbearably uncertain.
Ruminating in the unforgiving summer heat by the beach, “an act of penance,” I tell myself, I allow the serenity and calmness congenial to such satisfaction-inducing landscapes to mitigate the by-product of this epiphany: negativity. But, much to my dismay, it fails. I fail.
I fail to conquer the everlasting distance between us. I fail to understand, yet once again, that eager anticipation only breeds eternal disappointment.
Most unfortunately, I fail to acknowledge that our determination to always be somewhere else, with someone else, brutally impairs our ability to appreciate the present.
And that’s what Waiting does. Waiting looks like a mesmerising ocean; its serenity luring you into it only for you to discover the underlying deadly creatures laying vigilant to attack you. A mesmerising ocean that, despite calming and satisfying, poses inevitable threat.
Waiting: the calm before the storm. Waiting: a child imminent to Disobey. Waiting: an untreated cold. An unrequited investment. A ticket to self-loathe. A breeding ground for dejection and self-depreciation.
Waiting: An accumulation of hopes, wishes, dreams and expectations left unaccounted for.
Waiting? A euphemism; a downright hoax.