Where is he?
Searching. Wondering. Waiting. Where is he? Is he here already and I just don't see him? Or is he somewhere else still? Who knows. I sure don't; I have no idea. I wish I knew. But am I supposed to know? Obviously not, because I don't. Can he see me? I don't really think so. I think we'll see each other at the same time. But what if he can? What if he can see me and I just can't see him? Is that possible? Hmmm. At any rate, the waiting sure is getting hard. Or boring. Hard and boring, I think. Is he waiting like I am? I mean, is it hard and boring for him, too? Or is he so preoccupied with everything else that he doesn't even realize the wait? Like the doctor's office. All it takes is a really intriguing magazine article and the wait is insignificant. But what to do when there's no magazines? A hard, boring wait. You become consumed with the fact that you're waiting. I'm consumed. I shouldn't be. I have plenty of magazines. But I guess it's like waiting to find out if you've got cancer. The magazines are of no help then. I'm not waiting for bad news, though. I have no reason to be anxious. Yet at times the anticipation is excruciating. Why is the smell of brownies baking so tormenting? Yeah, that's how it is. Like brownies. I know -- I know for sure -- they're going to taste incredible, but the wait is so hard. And I can't focus on how interesting the magazine is because the smell is there distracting me. So I am consumed with the fact that I am waiting. Searching. Wondering. Waiting.