Waiting

I waited a long time on that dock. Looking out, I was trying to find the green light that people refer to when they read Gatsby. What was my green light? My life has always seemed like a series of waiting. Waiting for something better. Something bigger. Something more meaningful. “Get through high school, college will be your time,” as people who thought they knew me would say. Maybe, it’s when I am thirty years old, and I have a career, and a white picket fence, with a husband and a dog, children, too. Maybe, it's when we are at that cocktail party, where people talk with a locked jaw and try to one up the other person with “how great their life is and figuring out what the cheapest state to die in is, and if that will all really matter. Or, maybe it’s when I am fourty, when I look at this so-called-husband, and realize I am no longer in love with the idea that we were “meant to be together”. Maybe, instead of a green light, I’ll be looking at the neighbors across the street. Seeing if there is something greener on the other side. 

Why do I wait? It’s because I am afraid. But, afraid of what? Upsetting my father, upsetting those who think they know me. What happens when people get upset with you? I feel like I am another disappointment, or a reminder of someone they don’t want to see anymore. If I disappoint you, I start to feel like that piece of gum stuck on a new pair of shoes; eventually, you will forget how I let you down, but they never will let me forget. You can keep walking, but, I'm stuck on that shoe, waiting till the pavement runs me down. It’s as if I become the villian in a world that pretends to be heroes. I wonder how many times those people who judge us have sat on a dock and looked out for a green light, and how many of us found it. It exists, we can see it. The light hits our retinas and cones and rods and reflects this image of reality. It exists, I know it does.  If we look at our lives, how many of us have gone all in? It makes me wonder how many of us are living, or waiting to die? We don’t all get that chance to find the green light, yet the people who can attain the green light, fuck it up beautifully. 

You may be wondering why I am still waiting. Frankly, I am, too. Why do we call this living if we are creatures of complacency? I am not complacent with the life I live, yet I still wait. I can see that light, I believe in that light, but my feet are stuck, my arms can’t swim, I yell but no one hears me. So, I wait. Wait for a boat to pass by, someone to stay, leaves to fall, snow to drop, flowers to bloom. We wait. Wait for that moment, but I am tired of waiting. What about living? What about art? What about beauty? What about making an S.O.S. sign? What about learning to swim? What about instead of running, I walk? What am I afraid of? Not reaching that green light? At least I will be closer than I would be if I was waiting on that dock, dangling my feet, waiting for reality to come to me.