Waiting is transitory. It has to be.
I’ve been experiencing idleness for many months now, long before the coronavirus outbreak. The political and economic situation in Lebanon had already paralyzed our lives. The pandemic and lockdown came as the last and striking blows.
I now contemplate stillness around me. I am aware of my own. It oscillates between tranquility and morbidity. The pendulum seems stuck between the two.
I want to create something, but my inertia awaits an outside factor to set me back in motion, so I revisit my archives in the meantime. There I find it, a photograph of a fish in a frozen pond, one I had taken a year and a half ago. It now resonated.
Did the frozen water run again?
But the fish? It had definitely died. It didn’t survive the wait until spring came again.
I worry about my idleness and about the future, wondering if my winter had dragged for too long.
I lay static, but my consciousness keeps running.
And I wait.
work in progress