Spaghettified By Waiting

Did you hear that the black hole has eaten the star yesterday? The spaghettificiation, according to astrophysicists, is the noblest way for the star to die. Being torn into little strips by the powerful abyss is the honor, isn’t it?

I am waiting. I’ve been waiting for months and years. I feel that my waiting is a black hole, and it eats me alive, shredding the heart and psyche strip by strip and rolling the remnants in the colorless rolls of hopes on the floor.

The prophets and the fools say that instead of waiting for a storm to pass, you should learn to dance in the rain. Oh, I have learned all right. My slippery performance, showered by the rains of the circumstances and obstacles, has reached the heights of Emmy nomination. Time and again. But dancing in the rain becomes obsolete after some time. You are cold, drenched, and tired. So you return home empty-handed, cuddle on the couch with a puppy and think, the hell with the action in the rain, I’ll observe the storm from the window. I’ll wait.

I am waiting for the borders to open.

I am waiting for the sweetheart to engross me in his arms.

I am waiting for the people to acknowledge the clarity beyond what is seen and heard. About corona. About each other.

I am waiting for the money to fly in on a magic carpet, which I have constructed in the past decade. The carpet has a powerful engine. It just struggles with the stretched-out runway before it can rise above.

I am waiting for my artworks to be exhibited in all contemporary galleries across the world. Or, at least one in any neighborhood.

I am waiting for my books to hit the top lines of the New York Bestseller list. For real. For the authentic quality of the content, not as a marketing effort of internet manipulation.

I am waiting for my soul to say, you have done enough. Once.

I confess that I used to think too that being swallowed by the black hole while retaining the brilliance of a solo star was the biggest consecration of a human. I no longer think the same. I am more attracted by the subtle power of constellations, most visible in the twilight of a sunrise. Simultaneously, I was scared of shining too brightly, preferring the underutilized gaps of the lost shadows to the stark position of the shaft on stage. I can no longer stay in the shadows, though. I have exhausted my potential there.

I am waiting for my theater stage. For my play. For my performing moment. I don’t care about the audience. I need this act for me.

The prophets and the fools say that you are not betraying your old self by letting the pain go. However, space where pain used to reside, if not filled by anything, will turn into a black hole, while waiting. This makes me concerned about the healing of the pain spots. My pain is gone. What’s next? I am scared. I should replace it with joy, but I don’t know how to do it. I was preoccupied for too long by completing a long spiritual quest into the depth of my purpose. I forgot how to be in the physical realm. I lost a sense of pleasure from smelling autumn leaves and devouring spinach egg benedicts, sprinkled with crispy greens. I forsook the tingling sensation of the tights and the scarves while drinking oat milk lattes on the patio and looking at contrived pedestrians.

Joy is a foreign language to me. I wonder if I am at least familiar with its alphabet. I am waiting to learn this language. Again. Or, for the first time.

The prophets and the fools say that the good things come to those who wait. I am no longer sure what things are good for me these days. On the one hand, I naturally choose to be a dimmer whole. But, I doubt that this option is still viable or available for me if I want to live for other thirty-something years. On the other hand, I wonder if every star is destined to be cut to pieces before its disappearance. What about the constellations? Are they doomed, as well?

One thing is certain for me this morning. I am fed up with the black hole of waiting.

I don’t want to be spaghettified.