Waiting Is on My Mind

Anxious waiting is vulgar, grievous waiting is noble, lucid waiting is art — though I confess I've perfected the first, survived the second, and only glimpsed the third.

anxiously waiting…

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I’m thinking about my knee.

I have a 10k race in three weeks. I don’t know if I can hold six minutes per kilometer. I’m thinking that I probably can’t. I am not fast enough. Being fast enough is not the point. The point is also unclear.

I have already run today. I will run again tomorrow.

I’m thinking about whether I’m actually a writer. I have a brilliant mind. I don’t know if it can tell a story. Brilliance and storytelling are not the same thing. The book might fail. I might fail at the book. These are different things.

I’m thinking about the last time something felt easy. Writing used to. Running? Not ever.

I am waiting for Cherry to text me back.

I’m thinking about the way she said “okay” before hanging up. I have analyzed the word so many times it has lost meaning. There was something final in it. Or I imagined finality because I need drama.

Why can’t I just let okay be okay?

My brother called me last night. He was at a party. I could hear laughter in the background. He said he missed me. I told him instead of a startup idea that would make us money. He said okay. I’m thinking about why I did that.

I’m wondering what happens if I just take someone at their word?

I had a dream yesterday that I owned a store in a mall. I was behind the counter but I didn’t know how anything worked. Customers came in and I couldn’t help them. I don’t know why I would own a store. It has nothing to do with my life.

I’m thinking it doesn’t matter because I don’t trust my dreams. They promise clarity and deliver only more waiting. Last year I dreamed I could fly. I woke up and couldn’t.

I am a founder. I chose this. So why does the title feels borrowed? I pay the bills. I answer emails. I wake up and do it again. I’m thinking I’m living inside a role I’m not equipped for.

I thought it would feel like freedom. I thought it would feel alive. I’m not sure what it actually feels like. What if the path I’m on has no clear instructions?

I’m thinking about taking a break and keeping the 9-5.

Last time, I quit everything for a dream. The dream ate me alive.

People say you can’t do both. They’re probably right. But being probably right and being definitely destroyed are different things.

grievously waiting…

I ran eight kilometers this morning. I’m thinking about how running makes me horny. The blood moving. The body is awake.

I came home and had no one to touch. I’m thinking about having one-night stand to take the edge off. I could have one. I’m reasonably attractive. I know what to say.

But I don’t.

I’m thinking I have good impulse control. I’m thinking this is why I’m not dead. Also why I became a writer and not a heroin addict. I think instead of act. I wonder if this is a virtue or a character flaw.

I think about Jamal. How we baked scones in his kitchen last October. He measured the flour. I ate the blueberries before they made it into the dough. I sang Rihanna badly. Work work work work work. He laughed with his whole chest.

We fucked on the couch after. Still had flour on our hands. Then we just lay there. His head on my shoulder. His skin smelled like butter and green tea and something else. Just him.

I’m thinking that it felt spiritual. Which is horseshit. But it did.

I’m thinking that I need the scones. I need the couch. I need the breathing. I’m thinking that this need is a weakness. This wanting makes me bourgeois. I’m thinking I don’t care.

I spoke to my mother yesterday. She asked if I was eating enough. I lied and said yes. The truth is I forget to eat when I’m writing. The truth is I’m not writing.

I’m thinking about how my mother answers on the second ring. My father lets it go to voicemail. He calls back three days later. Says he was busy. I don’t ask with what.

I’m thinking about how my father used to wait for me after soccer practice. Forty minutes in the car. Reading the paper. Now I’m the one who waits for him to ask me something real. He never does.

I’m thinking about my sister. I was born first but she was born useful. She knows everyone’s dietary restrictions. I don’t return phone calls. She has a talent for obligation. I have a talent for excuse. There should be an explanation for this. I have tried to find one. Perhaps I failed at being the first child. Perhaps she succeeded at being the second. The roles were assigned at birth but we switched them without anyone noticing. Or everyone noticed and no one said anything to me.

My sister sends the family prayers in a group chat. I look at them but don’t respond. She texts me separately: Did you see the prayers? I say yes. She sends me a different inspiration message. I’m thinking about what she’s really asking. I’m thinking that I don’t have the answer.

I wonder what it cost her to become indispensable. I have never asked. I’m thinking that asking now would be obscene. The debt is too old. The interest too high.

lucidly waiting…

It’s -20 degrees outside. I’m looking out the window. Snow already starting.

I’m thinking about why I stay in Toronto. The winters are brutal. The rent is high. I’m thinking about being trapped inside for three days. Maybe four.

I wonder why I don’t move somewhere warm that doesn’t try to kill me four months a year. I don’t leave. Why don’t I leave?

Catherine told me she regrets moving to Toronto. Last night. We were drinking at her kitchen table. She poured another glass. Red. Said Montreal was better. The job was better. The winters were the same kind of hell but at least the money was good. Her three-year-old started screaming upstairs. She didn’t get up. Just kept drinking. Kept talking about the mistake.

I’m thinking about the silence when it was my turn. What do I regret? Nothing. Not because I’m satisfied with my choices. Most of them were shit. But they were made with what I knew at the time. I’m wondering why she’s punishing herself for not knowing the future? I’m punished enough already.

I walked home after. It was cold. My hands in my pockets. I’m thinking about summer. How it will be different. I’ve been telling myself this for three summers now.

I think about being buried under snow. About all the storms I’ve waited out. I’m thinking that weather ends but this waiting doesn’t.

I have a squash game with Oluchi next week. We played Saturday. I’m not good at squash. She beat me in straight sets. My shoulder seized up on Sunday. I couldn’t lift my arm to wash my hair.

I’m thinking about why I keep doing things that hurt me. Maybe the hurt is proof I’m still trying.

I’m thinking of getting a dog. A golden retriever. I’ve wanted one for two years. I look at photos of puppies on my phone. The lease doesn’t allow it. I could move. I don’t move. I’m thinking about what I’m really afraid of. Not the dog. The commitment to joy. The dog would need walking. The dog would be happy to see me. I don’t know if I trust happiness yet.

I’m thinking about Troy. He wrote an essay about what he was thinking. His friend’s cancer. The shitty pizza. Whether to get married. There was no resolution. Everything given equal weight. I read it three times.

I looked up flights to Nairobi last week. Round trip. $1,200. I didn’t book it. I didn’t tell him either. I’m thinking about asking him to come here instead. February in Toronto. Let him freeze his ass off. See my apartment. The desk with the unfinished manuscript. The business that’s barely a business. Would I actually show him? He’d be kind about it. I’m thinking that kindness would be worse than judgment.

I’m thinking we’d finally settle who’s faster. I like to imagine I’d beat him. He’s faster. Has been for years. But the thought still pleases me. I’m thinking wanting to beat him is petty. I’m thinking I’m petty.

I’m thinking I have too much on my mind. Too much.

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1. Inspired by a piece by Troy Okuna