The Art of Waiting

I am waiting. 

Just waiting. 

I have been waiting for what seems like the space of time it takes for a spill of primordial ooze to become New York City.

I was born waiting. I will die waiting. And in the meantime, I will become the Matisse of waiting. The Van Gogh of waiting. The Freaking Victor Hugo and Pablo Neruda of waiting.

I will Franz Boas the shit out of waiting. Why do people wait? By waiting, can I delve into the depths of human waiting? I must learn the language of waiting in order to understand it's culture.

And when I am done, if I ever shall be done, I will know the Secret. The one that has troubled minds great and small for millennia. Watch out Lao Tzu! I can Tao your Ching with the silence of an abandoned mine about to be demolished. Rumi, I know you're all into this Love and Be Loved thing but let me tell you, waiting is where it's at. How can I achieve self actualization, Malinoski, if my soul reverberates with something about to happen? You know what, Marx? I don't think I have to tell you anything about waiting you apocalyptic scholar, you, but can I just say? I don't know if you waited long enough.

Like moons and like suns and with the certainty of tides, like hope springing high, still I wait.

I've seen roses demasked, red and white,

but no such roses see I in waiting.

And yet I think my love as rare,

As any belied through false compare.

In case you haven't gathered. I'm still waiting on my plane ticket. I think it's taking an emotional toll.