It’s almost like you are waiting and waiting and waiting and you could wait years or you could wait a few days and you wait for one second one part of a second before it’s gone and you don’t even have time to wave goodbye because you are plunged into the next waiting. I am always waiting, and I used to think it was patience but now I know it’s not. I am waiting because I am waiting to live my idea of one moment. I am waiting because I am not living now. I am waiting because I see no importance in now. How existentialistic.
I want to be the person who stops waiting and looking ahead for the train that will take her to the next place and just stops to look around at everything to sing a song or two not because she is good at singing but because she can sing, the person who just breathes deeply, breathes so deeply that she can taste the smell of a place.
Because I strive too much. I strive to finish things, I strive to do too much, I strive to please too many people, I strive to get the things I want and does that sound so healthy? Typical American, obsessed with busyness.
But what I desire more than anything is to be able to seize the second, what I want is to be able to rest completely in the grace of God, what I want is to be free from all the weight and pain and worry I bring upon myself by not resting or else I wear my life away striving.
And what is it really, what’s at the back of it all? Is it really the fact that I don’t think I have a story, and I am striving to get to the point where I will have a story? As Mumford and Sons would say… “Now how I long to grow old.” However, Fydor Dostoevsky popped up in my newsfeed the other day, and I won’t say anything else after what he says because after he says this… there’s nothing left to say.
“But how could you live and have no story to tell?”