SourceI see them as they come and go. I always try to make them as comfortable as possible, that is my mission. I like to hear them laugh, I like to listen to what they have to say, I give them so much... Whatever they need and I can give, it's theirs. I let them be as free as possible, I want them to know this is a safe space.
I made a home for you. - Silly girl, freedom has no home.
They come and go like waves, and I stare. Sometimes I wish I could leave with them. Until I realize that what I actually want is for them to stay. I don't want to be temporary, I don't want to be on a race against the Great Clock. I don't want to be a waiting room.
They come here to wait for better times. They will always be daydreaming about what was, about what will be. They desperately try to find their way out of something, and I'm not sure what that is.
But my doors are always open, no one should stay where they don't want to be, I would know. So I open all the doors, I open all the windows. I try to give them space so they can breathe. I break down a wall, or maybe three. They walk around in circles while I stare from my corner.
And I see how they slowly fall apart... No. They're not falling apart. As time passes they let me see into more of their rooms. True colors start to show. Some of their madness starts to leak through the cracks of their hearts. They're definitely not falling apart, they're coming together. And I am lucky enough to witness when this miracle happens. That is the beauty of being a patient waiting room. You get to see all the flowers bloom.
The waiting room waits. I'm good at waiting. As good as I am to be right on time, most of the time. But lately, I've been feeling like I'm being late for the most important things. I think it all began when I was born.
I was a little late to life, you see. I think that's one of the reasons why now I need to be on time all the time. But the irony is, I'm late when it matters. I'm so late when I need to be early that I've become an expert at waiting. But when you're late to life, your options are just few.
Eventually they leave, and the waiting room is left empty. They hit the road, take their flight to somewhere brighter, hopefully having learned something new, feeling a little bit less helpless, a little bit more loved. They don't look back, and quickly forget about the time they spent in that old, grey room.
But it was never a room, was it? It was the silence between heartbeats. We already established it: heartbeats are places. And we read between the lines that were given to us. Together, we discovered the books that were written for us. We danced to those weird songs meant for our ears.
You made a temporary home out of my heart. And temporary sucks.
Our souls intertwined until The Clock hit 12. I go back to pumpkin, as it was only fate.
I'm sorry for being late. I'll stand here by your side as you wait. I'll be waiting for you to stay, and you'll be waiting for better days.
You are a great writer @agnikana. This is a good work.
Heartbeats are places❤
ya sabes lo que pienso. Tanto sentimiento dentro de ti gracias.
Hermoso texto y muy bien lograda la metaforización, @agnikana. Tu relato tiene un tono poético que te hace pensar en esas imágenes que construyes. Es cierto, los cuerpos y los corazones también son salas donde la gente pasa un rato y luego se va. Adoré cada una de estas líneas. Un abrazo
This is wonderful! A painting with words. Thank you thank you for sharing this sliver of yourself <3
Deep down, I'm not sure I believe in late, or early. There is what is. And it happens right when it's supposed to happen. Although that is a hard perspective to have or hold when times are tough.