the thing about being someone who keeps pretty much everything to herself is that little cryptic emotional outbursts are all i need to express myself. it doesn’t matter if you don’t know who i’m talking about. it doesn’t even matter if i don’t know who i’m talking about a year from now. there is a simple pleasure in knowing something right now that might not matter in the days to come, a deep sorrow that no one will comprehend because i don’t spell it out or discuss it explicitly.
so i can tell you that i am tired of waiting, but you won’t know who or what i am waiting for. i am used to waiting. i wait for people that i give lifts to, even though that is wrong in the order of the universe. i wait for music to load, for video to stream. i wait for a word or a sign from God. i wait at the bus stop, in my living room, at the ice cream parlour. so when i say that i am tired of waiting, you can give an educated guess as to what or who i am waiting for, but you won’t know for sure because i am satisfied with just blogging about it here in a sentence: i don’t wanna be the one who waits anymore.
perhaps one day my tongue will acquire the skill of saying what’s on my mind and i will no longer resort to short, cryptic blogposts to release the grip my feelings have on my heart. i will look for help from the right people, the right channels. they will tell me how and when to stop waiting. one day.
my mother once told me that she only stopped expecting people to read her mind or understand her coded messages when she crossed the half-century line. i didn’t believe her then, but now i do. it’ll take another 25 for me to get there too.