I always feel like I'm waiting for something. For something to happen, for the sun, for a word from the sky, for a feeling of peace, for a play, for a coffee, for a friend, for news, for a future. Most often, the subject of my earnest yearning in unknown to me; it has just become a state of being and the feeling of being unsettled that covers my day like a shroud. This isn't despairing nor is it permanent; rather a quiet and unassuming friend. It tags along in my day and in my dreams, not exactly unwelcome but uncomfortably tangible and real.
But I can only hope that the silt will not always be suspended; the murkiness will silently clear a sure and direct path through the unknown. I tell my worry to have patience; all will soon be straightforward. My actions will again be purposeful and I will no longer content myself with swimming around in circles in a dirty goldfish bowl. Still, my tears streak the dust covering my eyes and offer no consolation or sympathy for I am not ready to face the God I try so hard to trust.
Every sigh a petition made to a God I want to hear - May (May&Joe)
I awoke from a dream in which my dreams were being dragged out from under me one a time, taking a piece of my soul with each departure. In this dream the windows were bricked in and the only sound was that of doors being slammed. There was a giant weeping rain and groaning thunder; stepping on neighbourhoods in its search for that little whispering man that escaped from his head. I couldn't tell if the trembling in my hands was from fear or from each of his earth shaking steps.
My day is not so different. Familiar things keep me grounded: daffodils on the sill, warm socks, old friendly sweaters, a pencil between my fingers, my hair in a bun, being surrounded by books, tear-stained carpet on my cheek. I am secure here.
I wouldn't be me without the worry.