There is always a place for waiting

There is always a place for the waiting, patience might run its course and like a tired walk wait for its pause and sit under a shadowless tree unsheating itself bit by bit. But wait like a tireless crusader runs and sits awkward in silent moments when habit has been shed for the day. It never overplays monotony, remains its silent company turning into words unknown; a language crafted against it. Sometimes it sheds hope as a load that it can no longer carry and walks along the frail steps of an old woman whose freckles and the crumbling skin tells a story you will never hear. It parts company with the city sounds as they coalesce around the cup of tea you yearn for on nights of insomnia. It curates your diary as words fall off from their practiced writing. It tickles memory when the door is left ajar and the wind knocks on the window. You hear the purr of a cat and discard another day in your calendar feeling the breathlessness that borders on nausea. Images tumble around that you cannot capture in your faithful camera.

March 20, 2016.
8:15 pm