I realised during lunch the other day that I am waiting for something to happen. This realisation was accompanied by a sense of peaceful tranquillity that wafted over me as I unwrapped my sandwich. So why am I waiting and what precisely am I waiting for? Waiting is so unlike me, impatient creature that I am. My life has always been about the now, now, now, of instant gratification. I don’t even know how to wait, and now my body and mind have agreed (without my permission) to slow things down. There is only a tiny part of me, outside of everything, outside of mind and body, that is still wondering and asking questions. It is this tiny part that has made a list of reasons why this is happening:
- I’m waiting for fear to stop masquerading as calmness, as soon as it does, I’ll be like that guy in that Edvard Munch painting
- I’m waiting out stupid thoughts, like the one where I tell myself I only have one novel in me and now there’s nothing left
- I’m waiting out anguish, so that when I reread the chapters of my novel I don’t try to chew my arms off
- I’m waiting to refill my energy bar like on some adventure game.
- I’m waiting and listening to the natural flow of give and take, the wave of impulse that builds up, crests and falls again
- I’m waiting for my body to realise that writing 7000 words per day and not eating or sleeping is a stupid, stupid thing
- I’m waiting to understand that the process of writing is not just putting down words on a page, it is thinking and observing and making connections
The weird thing is that while I am voicing possibilities, I am in no hurry to uncover the mystery. It is enough to know I am bidding my time, letting the space around me expand. Apologies if this post is a bit cosmic. Spooky things are happening within.