Time shifts and through the windows bleeds the first light of the day across a trio of windows. Oranges first, then gold, reds.
It’s a beautiful site, but it does little good to lift the spirits. The angst seems to be deepening, the confusion, the anger, the wishing to know what’s next.
The light signals the start of another day.
Just another day.
He knows there’s no timeline for any of this, but sooner would be better than later. He lets it all wash over him, through him, to see if there’s direction in the sadness. And there is not.
Just a waiting.
A wanting.


Donna said...

"Just a waiting."

I think that's the problem - notice how that rolls right off my lips, as if I can't be accused of doing the same.

I know you're busy, but maybe if you focus on being busy instead of staying busy and waiting, things will start to happen. Same actions, different perspective. Just a thought.