My personal disposition for waiting, has become a tiresome one. I recoil at the task, itself. And why is this? It is because I have waited too long, for something to arrive. My beloved. Too long have we been apart, and now she is far, still too far, and for this, I loathe waiting.
Spread throughout everything, alike a contagion, and I now hate waiting for everything else. Should I preoccupy myself with another task, then only about 40% of my mind will be devoted to this other task. My focus will never surpass the mid-way, because the other 60% is set upon the waiting. Though, how does one bring things to move faster? One thing I also despise, and what conflicts with this loathing, is to know that all things rushed, never produces results of excellence.
Still, I despise the wait, despite knowing that it will bring good fortune. To wait and hope, has been said to be a great wisdom, by whoever said it. Yet, I loathe it, the process of waiting causing me to fidget and squirm, in my place when I sit, or when I am upright, I pace around my home creating step after miserable step.
Waiting is tiresome. It is loathsome, and creates dread; because, as my mind settles in with the paranoia, in with the incessant fear, my imagination scurries about the room I am in, like how shadows dance when some nearby fireplace does the same with its flame. And, now when it is almost winter, and it is cold, fireplaces are common, shadows are common, and what is most common, is a depression, a gesture of anguish from my stomach, as it perhaps goes to pit itself in my throat.
My heart longs, and it will continue to long, until her arrival.