by Lutfiyah Suliman
Waiting, only to realize that waiting will not make us feel better.
Waiting, only to understand that we are just waiting for things to stay the same.
Waiting for a feeling to subside,
to not give a fuck.
Waiting to thwart the pressure
to perform our purported self-definitions.
Waiting to be ourselves,
to be better.
Waiting to do things differently,
to say the right things,
we are waiting to hear them.
Waiting: that comfortable space where there exists no haste.
Where denial sires the children of possibility,
we expect the birth of finality.But until the cusp of the completed transition,
there is a friendship with uncertainty.