Waiting. From one corner of the room, next to a window, next to a chair, beside a water machine, there is a green and white strand of yarn tacked to the wall. Actually its two strands; one of each color intertwined. The other end spans some ten feet and is tacked to the wall to the right of the receptionists window, forming a clothesline of sorts on which a handful of pictures hang to dry.
From the looks of it, from my seated position on the other side of the room, the works couldn't have been created by anyone over the age of twelve. Some of the pictures catch my eye. Surprisingly good. Good use of color and elementary shading techniques. Some of these young artists show real promise. Some of them do not. Their pictures drawn as if the crayon were crazy glued to the wrong hand and the poor child was simply forced to try and create something, anything at all.
Some of the lads will do it. They will make something of their lives, trudge through the mud long enough to emerge victorious and become successful practitioners of law or medicine, or eventually reach fame in the worlds of art or music and live "the good life" that they had been promised. And then, there's the others.
The others. Well, the others may not be so fortunate. Some may be on their way up up up, showing great potential all the way up until the terrible catastrophe occurs. They may get hit by a train or perish in a plane crash or fall victim to any number of freak accidents occurring each and every day in this place. Cut short. Cut off. Completely. Without ever having been given the choices and chances; the chance to either make something great of their lives or the chance to destroy them.
Some of them will be given every opportunity; all the second and third and fourth chances and still manage to squander it all selfishly. Some, well intended, focused, talented and motivated as they may be, and try as they may, will for whatever horrible reason, never be given that golden chance to overcome adversity and finally come out ahead or on top. How many aspiring artists, hacks and musicians fall prey to that each day.
Some of them will become life-long junkies or crack-fiends or gamblers or alcoholics or any other sort of addicted type that cant seem to find, or refuses to find his or her way out of the mess, never realizing that there is an answer waiting for them, that there is a another, better way.
The wait is indeed, the hardest part. And some will spend all of their waking moments waiting. Waiting. Sitting there with their arms crossed, twiddling thumbs and waiting. Doing nothing, just waiting: Whether its for the next chance or the next train or a big break or a big check or an old flame or for next week, next month, next year or next time, whenever that day may be they sit and wait they wait for it.
They sit and they wait for it to just one day, magically fall into their laps. And for some lucky souls, one day it will just fall into their laps. Then they can rise exaltedly and cry out. "All this waiting has finally paid off!!! I finally did it! I made it!"
The others, well the others will continue to wait, and wait in vain. They will go on and on, waiting their days away and away. Not realizing how much time has gone by, they wait and wait. Until one day, alone, senile and miserable, frustrated and cynical and bitter they sit and stare out a window, watching the birds fly by and waiting. They stare and they ponder all of things they could have just done. They look down at their white and baby blue patterned clothing waiting for their dinner, wondering what they've been waiting for, from a wheelchair in a dark and smelly room tucked within the halls of a darker and smellier nursing home as they wait to one day die. They cruise around all day and hit on nurses and they hope and pray that they make into heaven, so they can rest easy knowing that the wait finally paid off.
"Peter... Peter... Peter."
"Huh, what?"
"Peter, the Doctor will see you now."
"Thank god, I've been waiting forever."
No comments:
Post a Comment