one afternoon along taft avenue

Tapping my fingers on my hardbound, maroon covered book.

Why does it always feel that I am like that two-year old kid who has been told not to touch my marshmallow so I can get another one? (And I comply.)

Why is it excruciatingly painful to wait?

Is it because of the seemingly useless passing of time while you are stuck somewhere you feel you shouldn’t be? Or will it be less troubling not knowing where you want to be and simply sit and let things unfold before you? Isn’t the process still tiring and taxing nevertheless?

It’s that prolonged agony of getting to a destination, a thing, a dream, a person—that long lull between you and a desire.

Who ever wants to wait, in the first place?

A Jesuit priest once said that waiting is a sacrament. Thus, to my frail understanding, it is an avenue of grace. Am lost in the mystery.