It is dark and cold. I can hear the heavy raindrops on our roof. I can feel the gash of the cold breeze on my cheeks. I can see nothing but darkness around me and this laptop of mine is the only source of light I have. Darkness surrounds me as I wait.
I wait for something good to happen. I’ve been waiting for this all my life. It is not new to me—the stinging pain of waiting and of expecting something that is seemingly impossible to happen. I wait and wait. I am tired of waiting, but I cannot do something about it. It is as if my life is perfectly tailored for waiting, just waiting. It is as if my emotional threshold is perfectly made for struggling with pain and hardship. I don’t know if it is a good thing or not, all I know is that it is hard to wait. It is difficult to deal with the pain of expecting something and the frustration that it brings afterwards. I wait. But all I can hear is the sound of the heavy raindrops on our roof. I can only smell the damped grounds. I can feel the coldness—inside and out.
I wait for it to happen. But all I can see is the bluntness of the dark alley before me. It is hard. The pain of waiting is excruciating. It is not what I want, but it is something I have to do for now. It is not what I wished for, but it is something that I can do for now. It is inevitable. It is like I am a victim of my own foolishness. But aren’t we all?
I wait. I will wait until I fall asleep. I will wait when I wake up. It is a cycle for me. For now. I have to wait for my turn. I have to wait until Lady Luck faces its coin on me. I will wait until that bright morning comes to me, until the sun smiles on me.
I am still waiting, but my battery is running out.
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