Waiting

Waiting....

waiting...

 

What is there left to do now? 

I sit at the edge of the windowsill perched on a small leather stool. I perch as if I am some small and fragile bird trapped inside of a cage. I stare from behind tiny boxes; trapped behind a window screen. I look beyond the front yard, which is littered with bits and pieces of torn paper circulars, empty coffee cups and strewn wrappers of various foods. I look beyond the neighbor’s yard where a young retarded man is taking out the trash. His ear, severely deformed, gives little support to his oversized hat and causes it to sit lopsided on his head. I look beyond the probably stolen car that has been abandoned on the street corner and is decorated with nearly a dozen orange tickets. I look beyond it all. 

What am I looking for?

I still don’t know the answer, but I find myself perched here, day after day, for sometimes countless hours at a time wondering what there is left to do now.

Sometimes I cry when I ask myself this question. Other times, I scream. Still other times, I become quite angry but I am unsure of where to unleash or direct my anger at, so instead it festers inside of me like a spoiled can of milk, rotting and infiltrating anything good that might be inside of me. I am not sure of what there is left to do now and although there is a great desire inside of me to do something, I just remain still instead, hoping that someone else will give me the answer, hoping that someone else will do the work for me, hoping for hope.

Day after day, the routine has become the same. I woke reluctantly, hoping that this day will be different. There is a tiny hope of inspiration in those first few moments when my eyes flutter open. Normally I am laying on my side and the first glimpse of the world that I see is a beautiful painting that my father had made for me when I was younger. It’s a breathtaking scene of lush trees , a bubbling brook and a small log cabin. I imagine that the air is crisp but still inviting. I imagine someone waking up in this painted paradise and going for a morning hike or possibly brewing a pot of coffee as they served home-made blueberry pie to a friend. For those brief few moments of morning I am transported to this wonderland. I can smell and taste the pie. I can hear the brook running softly in the background. I can feel the air; the cool, crisp air. I try to stay there forever.

Those moments are fleeting though and soon enough, I am drowning again; drowning in a sea of black tar, hopelessly falling deeper into the ravine of darkness. I struggle to maintain my balance. I fight to swim in the sea of rubber and by the time I have finished brushing my teeth, washing my face and peeing, I am already exhausted. The bubbling brook has dried up and the lush trees have all but disappeared. The smell of blueberry pie has diminished and the feel of the cool, crisp air has turned into an ice-chilling breath slowly making its way up and down my spine. 

What is there left to do now?

I don’t know, so I perch on my stool and stare out of the window, looking beyond everything, searching for an answer, searching for a sign. 

Searching. For. Something.