I take a sip of coffee. Its cold. The pillow at my feet glows softly in the light of a standard lamp. A dull memory of swans. A hum from the upstairs flat as my neigbour takes a shower.
The minutes pass and still I am still no nearer a resolution: what are you waiting for?
A younger man thought he knew. He was awaiting the call. A man standing in the saddle, knocking on the shutters. Time to move, everything would make sense and click into place. Perhaps that was just a need for everything to click into place and make sense.
The older man is wiser. Nothing like that will happen. Time will pass- there is never enough time, of course- and change will be subtle. Everything is almost, could have been, not quite, maybe given enough time.
I’ve lost any desire to change things. Instead everything will be as it is. The most I can ask is to be alive to every passing moment when everything is what it is. That in itself is a struggle for a mind that ruminates about the past and is anxious about the future.
My life is a tale told by a bad storyteller who forgets important details and has to to back track to fill in the detail.
I wait for the phone to ring.
Tonight I am alone with my thoughts. Always, a world of thought.