Waiting. Ironic, eh?

19 Apr

Like a raisin on a string, I am currently in an uncomfortable position of limbo.

(pause while you figure that analogy out – and continue).

I am waiting. Waiting for emails. Now that it’s possible to send an email in mere moments and have it arrive seconds later, straight to your phone/pooter/other portable device, the assumption that said waited-for-emails can’t be long in heading my way is hard to shake off. Despite the fact that the emails for which I am waiting refer to things that take time to decide, I nevertheless have this sensation that – because they can be sent in the blink of an eye – they may actually arrive at any moment. I’m transferring the qualities of the medium onto the message.

Since these emails could all be either joyous or woeful, it is even harder to wait for them. Emotional limbo may be less physically strenuous than actually dangling from a string but I would suggest it is significantly more mentally damaging. Unless you’re being hanged, or something. But is it really limbo if you’re hanging until you are dead? Not in quite the same way. Anyway. I digress.

I have a gift for prevarication. That’s not to say I can’t be extremely efficient, when I want or need to be. I can. But when I am slightly lacking in motivation, or my motivation is suspended in the web of past actions, I can prevaricate like there is no tomorrow.

Waiting for something you’ve done to catch up with you – for better or worse – is a sticky business. Held back by treacly threads of intention, it’s easy to hang there limply until the Great Big Spider of Misery comes to wrap you up and devour your delicious, sugar-saturated insides. It’s sickly sweet to imagine this web cocooning you while you nurture your ideas and are born from them, uplifted by the response you desire. Or, perhaps, that you will be cut free by the response you feared, but can at least leave and go off to spin a new dream elsewhere. The longer you wait, flailing hopefully or hanging disconsolately, the more likely you are to atrophy. Whatever led you to build your own gallows in the first place disintegrates and you can think of nothing else but the sensation conferred by the airy freedom of resolution.

There’s only so long you can wait before you get bored. Often, though, you’ll be surprised how much longer you can keep waiting.

Anyway, while I gently turn to dust, I’m lightening the mood with some Monty Python. If there are any Beckett enthusiasts out there preparing to ask ‘shall we go’, I say to you – yes, let’s go. But no-one will move.


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