Tell My Heart to Wait it Out

I’m hurting, aching, burning, yearning and crying out for something. I am a yin without a yang, a hole that needs a patch, music lacking melody, an amputee. These days I am a hollow, scooped out melon, heavy and yet empty, looking normal on the outside while desire resounds inside. It’s not so much sadness as a subterranean, weary discontent. I’m exhausted by all the wanting and not getting, the struggling to be satisfied with what I have but knowing that I’m not complete. Sometimes it’s nice to be lulled into thinking that the odds must be with me, that bad things can only happen for so long. That is wrong. That is a naïve remnant from childhood, the belief in the inevitably of your dreams if you beg enough. This stubborn hope, romanticized as it is, hurts us more than the despair ever could because it makes acceptance impossible. I have learned that no amount of wanting will make anything happen. Letting go makes things happen, but of course the irony then is that you only get what you need once you feel you don’t need it anymore. Kind of like manna falling from heaven after you’ve starved to death. There are indeed two kinds of waiting: the patient, voluntary sort and the type that bristles under the oppression of time. I am always at the mercy of the latter. I have no choice but to endure, to continue wishing and hoping and thinking and praying.