My life isn’t what I had hoped, or expected.
There’s very little joy in my life. Uncomplicated happiness has so eluded me. When it came my way—when I was younger, not so much anymore—I wasn’t wise enough to realize how rare it was, or how little of it there would be later.
Now is later. Now I know better.
It seems that all I do is mark time. It’s what life seems to have become—a wait. Waiting for something, but unable to articulate what it is that I’m waiting for. It’s . . . something. Something wonderful. It will fill my heart, and give my soul an aim. I’ll know it the second I see it. I’m just waiting for it to arrive.
But what if it doesn’t come. What if there’s just the waiting, the gray days cluttered with the routines of a long slog. What then.
When I realize that there’s just the waiting, will I be disappointed? Or relieved. Or indifferent. Or done.