[in progress]

This is the waiting room.

There’s a few chairs along the walls, a table with some strewn magazines, and a large window through which you can see the skies. Perhaps there’s a clock hung to one side, but you only glance at it out of habit, and play with meaning in the numbers.

We wait there like cats, dozing still and content, sharp thoughts muffled by the pure, heavy and delicious weight of gravity on our limbs. At intervals the sky fires up or purples down, and then we stare at the exquisite colored shadows and .

This is the waiting room, or corridor perhaps.

There’s a good number of people sitting like you are. Some you know, some you don’t. A few might be pacing around, they’ll sit down again.

You woke up one day in your mind and to this waiting room.

The wait is you, or perhaps you, it. In asking « for what ? » some found religion. Others, nihilism. The question itself has no meaning. Catsnip. The magazines give easy answers. The answers keep you from walking out.

Sometimes a door opens and in comes out comes another. They say : i found love. A journey. They say : art is the key. Or politics. They say : i know passion. They’ll sit down again. Sometimes they don’t come back.