I sat and observed the sun. It had… a particular glow to it.
It was pure, unlike other forms of light.
A candle, for example, is bound to melt down and extinguish its proper flame.
A light bulb is bound to burn out someday.
But the sun… the sun had a form of eternity that I had never witnessed before.
It had a certain vibe that hooked you to it. Even in the dark you craved it. It had a way of making itself indispensable for other life forms.
So I sat and watched the sun rise. Then I watched the sun stay and shine with all its might and its pure rays.
And then I waited.
I was unsure what it was I was waiting for, but my soul was crippled and I knew I had to wait for something. Something to be or happen or fall or come or rise or set or go. I just had to wait for it.
But I hated waiting. Yet it seems to be all we ever do – wait for an event, a meeting, a occurrence. Wait for the sun. Wait for the night. Wait for life. Wait for death.
Wait for the words to flow in our head. Wait for the pages to fill themselves magically. Wait for a promise. Wait for a dream. Wait for a return.
Wait for time. Wait for a chance. Wait for luck. Wait for karma. Wait for fate.
Or simply wait.
And that was what I did – wait. But it was more than that really. I had embraced the wait. I had spent all my time waiting: while sitting, while observing the sun, while reflecting. The wait was part of the sequence – a continuous rhythm in the verses of my life.
Wait is unpredictable. Wait is unsure. Wait is scary. And yet, I did nothing but wait.
The sun was still shining – it too seemed to be waiting. But waiting for what? I was unsure. Was it waiting for the same thing as me?
I was unsure.
Yet it kept waiting. We both kept waiting. Waiting until the wait would be over.
And that, like many other things, was unsure.