Waiting Like A Waiter

Recently I posted the following tweet on Twitter

The reason I wrote such a thought was not because of a linguistic question.  It was because right now I am waiting on a number of things.  My waiting list is longer than an Orangutan’s arms.  I hope the waiting ends soon so I can shout from the rooftops.  Instead I am just bubbling with frustration.

This waiting experience, made me think about waiting in general.  As I turned on my computer and waited for it to load, and then waited for chrome to open, and then waited for the webpage to load  and then waited for the words to form in my brain and waited for my fingers to get to work I realised that waiting is unavoidable.  We wait for thousands of different things each and every day.  Whether it be traffic lights, phone calls, food to cook, dogs to crap, snow to melt, to get paid and to get laid.  It is impossible to go twenty-four hours without having to wait for anything.

The veracity of this truth is unyielding.  And yet when people show the tiniest hint of impatience, rather than sympathize, we throw meaningless expressions at them.  We push this fantasy that a man of action can do anything he wants.  Carpe diem unless someone is walking on the pedestrian crossing, or they have to pick up the kids from school, or if it’s the day before payday.  Time and tide wait for no man, but man waits for just about everything else.

The cold truth of the matter is that destiny is not in our hands.  Destiny is the result of many other factors.  I challenge each and every one of you to time how long you spend waiting for things for a whole day.  Or even count the number of times you will find yourself waiting for something.  You will be unpleasantly surprised.  Next time someone says to you that patience is the virtue of a saint, punch them in the face.  Or if you are not of violent disposition lean close to them and whisper ‘Merda taurorum animas conturbit’.

The Queue Of Life

I am nearly 31.  I take the bus everywhere.  I don’t have a house, a company car, a white picket fence, a pension, 2.5 children or a good job.  All I have is an imagination, a good woman, a sense of righteous indignation and a belly full of anger.

The striking fact is that as I get closer and closer to the half-way point of my life it has become crystal clear that I will never realise what little potential I have.  I will remain just me.  Neither an achiever nor a failure.  Just another idiot waiting in line to die.  And that infuriates me even more.

The problem with fulfilling these expectations is that they are not things I aspire too.  I don’t want to merely shuffle along the line until I drop dead.  I want to be happy.  I want to feel alive.  I don’t want to be an accountant.  I don’t want to be stuck in a classroom.  If the sum total of a mans worth is his CV and his pension fund then I am mere amoeba.

Unless man is the total of his actions.  Then I am still fucked.  I remain a dreamer, at odds with himself, desperately awaiting the 60 seconds of inspiration it takes to change someones life.  And there’s the problem.  I have spent my life avoiding the possibility of waiting in line until I drop dead, and instead wasted far too much time waiting for a miracle.  It’s only now I am coming to terms with it.

I need to get out of this queue.  The only way to do it is to take action.  And that is the hard bit.  At least I am half way there.

Wasting Time

With my novel wrapped up, and no work for another week I have found myself with very little to do all week.  I have tried my level best to keep a promise I made sometime ago that once I finished my manuscript I would start to try to focus my efforts on joining the world of grown ups.  Being 30 years old with no retirement plan to speak of is hardly an ideal situation, so it’s with great trepidation that I now have to start thinking about what the bloody hell I am to do with the rest of my life.

The first morning after sending my manuscript was the most difficult.  For just over a year two things have been my companions every day, writing and the pain in my leg.  Actually stopping writing is proving to be quite similar to give up smoking(which I quit about half a year ago).  I found myself sketching out details for another novel before I reminded myself that I cannot do that.  The time and attention required means that it serves as a massive distraction from life.  It’s sad but I have to accept the fact that it is time to live like a grown up.  The same goes for this blog.  I promised to give myself one year.  At the end of November I will close this blog.  Unfortunately life is not a Hollywood movie.

The actual waiting of this process is quite awful.  I currently fill my time by trying to think of things to do which do not require the use of my brain.  The worst thing is that it hasn’t even been a week.  I can’t even bear to think about the future.  The idea of becoming bored, unfulfilled and miserable for the rest of my life terrifies me.  Sadly, I don’t see any other option.  Life,  you stink.