Waiting. Waiting. I find I’ve spent most of my life waiting, spent time waiting, waiting, waiting on people, on opportunities, waiting on movement, waiting on moments, waiting. Wondering. When. When it comes together, when I figure it out, when life comes together. Waiting for everything to amount to something, when words add up and moments and choices pay off, waiting for fruition, fruition of something, of anything. Just waiting, as if the patience – that of which I may have none and perhaps that’s why fruition is postponement is still waiting. When I do something, make something epic, contribute something meaningful, as if anything makes any difference at this point in sensationalized history. Waiting. Waiting for desperation, for dire times, for the motivation of suffering, waiting to care more, waiting to care. Waiting for necessity, when words are necessary, when passion is necessary. When I’m necessary. Maybe the point is that none of us are ever really necessary. We just think we are.