Waiting is transitory. It has to be.
I 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