I wait for love as the sands of time quietly sift through my fingers. I wait, and the days slip by like so many notions; I wait, and people pass by in their own protective blurs; I wait, and the tomorrow I wait for grows farther and farther away. There may be some light up ahead, in the distance, but I cannot tell whether or not it is merely a passing train, whether or not it will just keep going on without stopping for me to board it. I am an old sign, swinging in the breeze, imagining the bustle of crowds long since past.... I think I must awaken somehow, that this torpor I must break from it — breathe free again.
In my soul, I have wandered far through the motives and consequents of emotion. And if I truly imagine it, the good old days before all my trials were not so good. Such is the story of everything. I think I seek something new, now, some clarity or similar taste I have never drunk before. I wonder if it is not the lesson, after all of it, that I should start from one: learn how to love the man in the mirror — that love itself, in all its measures, waits for me, too.
