8:43, awakened by the alarm clock, restless in my head. It’s a work in progress, a masterpiece of some kind. The seconds tick away, while the minutes will undeniably add up to… something.
It’s strangely familiar, I’ve been here before. “The Waiting Place,” as I’ve heard it mentioned, once before. This is life in motion. We’re all tiny little headlights on a car, in a fast-moving parade of night. And some of us are discontent.
Stand against the freezing cold that bites at your fingertips on a long walk home on Friday night. Take each step, and resist the urge to let this be the reason to just give in. “Don’t call for help this time.”
She’s a fast-move parade of her own. She smiles as life visits her on her own time. Hiding only behind that which she cannot undo, she smiles helplessly, and aimless. She’s content with right now.
I’m quite the negative to her positive. We balance this moment perfectly, in motion.
On this Sunday morning, the city keeps calling for me, and so I return to see her face. I went there last night, alone. I walked the cold, rainy streets, scared and vulnerable to whatever sin I could face. As I looked up into the massive city lights, and felt the cold rain collide with my weathered face, I realized at that moment, I was truly lost.
And so, I ignored the angry souls shouting for my attention, and ran in circles until I found my way back to my car. Thank God.
Today, she asked how I felt.
"Grey," I replied.
"You’re looking to far into it," she muttered back, confused and perhaps disappointed. Or just simply irritated by my endless response.
"Good and bad are two concepts I simply can not commit to at this time," I let out.
And we both agreed.
I’m building my own nest of cinnamon and myrrh, where I will allow these useless thoughts to decompose on their own. And like the Phoenix, I’ll too die. But only to explode into the brightest fire one could ever see, eclipsing everything, runing every last mundane fact. A rapture.
And then I’ll rise.