When Time Goes to waste

I found that of all the hardships a person can face because we all have been assigned something we must face, none is more punishing than the act of waiting.

The simple yet wrinkling task of waiting for a thing yet to come or for a thing that left which we want returned. A thing which we are too proud to return or too proud to go after. The simple act of waiting because we fear to proceed, yet too weak to stay.....

We wait because we are comforted in our arrogance and at joy in being the obstruction of our own living—nothing is more punishing than this, I think.

I have written a story; read it, will you?

I have written a story as simple as the task of waiting but less draining. It is a nonspecific story about life's habitual and random rudeness and punch in the throat. It is a story of it being crooked and sly, and its character of turning on humans with no warnings. It is a story of one bad day, one bad turn, one bad choice that equaled a bad life.

So, they arrived at the front desk of Hotel XYZ in front of an immigrant girl, a man, and a woman who looked like the best part of life was behind them. "We have a reservation under John and Jane Doe," one said.

" Oh Perfect. You are welcome to Hotel XYZ. May I have your ID and credit card, please?" said the immigrant girl, confirming the reservation. "It appears you have separate bookings today. Is it okay if I leave the bill on the credit card on file?"

"Yes, we do have a booking, and no, the bill goes on separate credit cards," they said.

The immigrant girl attended to Mr. Doe, who was noticeably happy. She noticed his attention on Jane, who, unsuspectingly, was reading the map of the city stationed at the front desk to guide tourists with their exploration choices, including how to locate their favorite spots in the city.

He gazed at her with a longing that cut through the air like a sharp blade seeking its sheath. It was as if he saw her as a lost treasure waiting to be found once more. His character was an open book, the glimmer of his Versace wristwatch serving as a bold underline to his story. A retired figure, his well-fed appearance contradicted the hunger that emanated from his gaze, as if something vital was amiss. His eyes, weathered and starved, spoke volumes, revealing that everything he lacked was her.

He looked and talked to her like she was the love he let go to waste. With an intensity that felt like a smoldering ember, as if she were the haunting melody he couldn't forget. His words cascaded, carrying the weight of unspoken truths and wants. he looked almost pitiful, as pitiful as one who held a heavy yet fragile vase of untold confessions. He nonetheless managed to look grateful that the delicate contents of this vase would remain unknown to her.

"Here goes your room key, Mr. Doe". Said the immigrant girl.

Mr. doe was offered to be escorted to his room by the Porter. He, however, opted to stay behind until Jane Doe was checked into hers.

As they both left, staggering from age, separately into their different Hotel rooms, and like a thing which seemed to hang around their necks, like a noose, there was a quiet mourning. A mutual mourning even for both what was Lost and what was allowed to die, a thick noose on their failed necks as tight as the task of waiting, a task which they perhaps had chosen not to do, when they should.

Two tired birds who seemed comforted in the arrogance of self until now. They walked on, both towards the arms of their self-inflicted solitude, each one perhaps yearning for the possibility of a chance that was abused. It was silent yet visible as day, as was heavy on both of their necks, as life. It was as though each one heading to their room. Had things they wanted to say, but the beauty of ego was in the way.

Jane who smelled like she'd had been soaked in alcohol all noon, turned the round to ask  just for more alcohol.  She was informed of the non-availability of it due to operational policies. Minutes later, and as if the information did not suffice, a visibly drunk yet tasty Jane doe returns to the immigrant girl.

"You know he was my first husband, right? 

"who might you be referring to ma'am?"  asked the immigrant girl.

"Oh! I married him 50 years ago. Now, half a century later..." (She laughed hysterically, perhaps, a bit than necessary). We are back together as... I don't even know haha! I am just trying to have fun, get me some bottles, save my grand, and put my alcohol in this room. Oh, never mind. I was kidding, put it on my room!"

She threw both hands in the air, gave a hysterical laugh yet again, and hahahah she went.

The immigrant girl, who by nature analyzes situations, humans and their innuendos on a deeper level than most people, began to ponder the subject of a first husband.

What it means to be a first, in a world where one can be either last or nothing. What does a first husband mean in a world where one can have more than one husband, two husbands, no husbands, as many husbands at a time,  spontaneously and simultaneously? Could this mean he was the one she said yes to the first time? Perhaps she too was the one he said yes to the first time.

What happened after the yes was said. How come two people who said yes could no longer stand each other? what do people think about when they say yes? Are they aware of hardships and the fact that it is a souvenir of life regardless of whether well or not well spent?

What brought disdain Between two people who were excited to be each other's first? what was strong enough to successfully stand in the way?

Was it something that happened suddenly or gradually? Was it a minor escalation or an offence that was allowed to accumulate into months or years of anger cum bitterness and disgust?

Did one person wake up one day and decide that they are confident enough to survive on their own, to find a better love, a better laughter, a better headache, a better of what they said yes to the first time, the very first time they ever had to say the most important yes? Who first changed their mind and said No after a yes?

What happened to two people who chose each other the first time they ever had to choose anything important? Was it John or Jane? who was the most convinced that they will make it without each other? that they will become more, and find another better than the one for which their first yes was extracted? who/what was it that burnt the bridge?

A slow, long, painful life without each other—who recommended it? Who refused to wait and suffer but chose to leave and still suffer? Half a century in, why couldn't they find someone fit to replace each other with? Why wasn't anyone good enough? what happened to their greed and thirst for other people?

What happened to the confident that guaranteed a replacement? How come it did not give them more? How come? They ended up half a centuries later wrinkled, wanting, confused, suffering and alone? Could the "other side" be a mirage? Is it a lie, a mirage or both? why isn't the grass as green as promised?

I have always known that Nothing is as advertised, and that there is yet to be born a man without err. I have always thought that to wait, to suffer, to persevere, fight for, and hold on to your not perfect but good things is to gain. Waiting for your person to come around, to pick themself up, to figure themselves out, to heal.... waiting, which also means extending grace or even suffering, is by all means excruciating, but I think the aftermath of it is profit.

Tuck this tale in your heart and remember, luck is a rare bird.  Not all of us will get to witness half a century's worth of sunsets enough to meet a love we threw away once again, or to attempt to make amends. Begin today and chose your good thing, choose the pearls of your life, over and over again. Your good thing may no longer be as glittery or sparkle as you remember, but do not throw them away in a hurry. Remember the reasons you said Yes and wait, for every cloud has a silver lining. The pain of waiting is better than a noose of regret to sit on your neck for a long wrinkling lifetime.

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