Waiting For Herself

She was waiting for something.

She couldn't be sure what it was, she just knew she had to wait for it. She didn't want to, of course. She wanted to have it. Now. Right this moment. Because the waiting was starting to drive her mad, and she could feel her life being stolen.

Yes, stolen. Others were living it, while she let it slip from her grasp as she waited endlessly for that one ephemeral moment when her life would suddenly make sense. She knew it was there, waiting for her, and she knew that when she found it, it would be brilliant.

She thought she had found it. She was so sure that moment had come, but now it seemed that moment had been stolen by the very man who had brought it to her.

How dare he? How dare he offer her the promise of excitement and desire, lust and fulfillment, and then snatch it away just as she thought it was hers?

He had betrayed her. He had given just enough to get all she had, and his betrayal would continue until there was nothing left of her and all her myriad potential had withered to naught but empty nostalgia. He was a coward or he was a bastard; either way he had reneged on the promise of his passion and she should be well quit of him.

But what then? Where to go, what to do? When would her waiting end, and how would she know when it had?

It would end when she finally knew herself, and could see what it was she could offer herself, rather than all she kept offering to others. See beyond the shell to the spirit, beyond the body to the mind, past the needs of others and into the needs of her own soul. There was greatness living inside her, and her moment would come when she accepted it at last.

And when she did, the stars themselves would sing in celebration.