The Waiting Room

Briony.
An original written by Alexandra.

Girl Seated by a Window
Carl Holsøe (1863-1935)

I can feel myself retreating again,
regressing, the hands of despair firmly
sinking itself into my spine and tendons,
ready to reel me back into the dark
caves of depravity. It is where I habitually
return when this feeling ensues. The
problem is I grew settled in there. I adapted
to the darkness and became nocturnal. I
reconciled with the loneliness and became
self-contained, I familiarised myself with the
walls of the inside and became used to calling
it “home.”

I want to go ‘home’, but therein lies no future
for me. It is an unlimited abyss, an eternal
chasm, a plane where time evaporates and
space diminishes. It is so dim inside that
it feels like happiness will never be felt again,
as basic and reductive as that seems. If one
stares long enough, the darkness transforms
into a nothingness, which morphs into a
delusion, which mutates into an absolute
despondency.

At times like these, the thought of any
future is daunting and heavy on my heart.
I worry how I will cope the next week, let
alone several more decades, if God affords me.
Understandably, the call to return ‘home’ is
rather alluring. But I am of the full knowing
that this is no answer, for I have decided I am
searching for a pause, not an end. It took some
time for me to distinguish between the two, but
the quiet hope of something better awaiting me
and the curiosity of witnessing what may unfold
lines my veins, propels my weak pulse and hijacks
my dreams. These are enough to steer me away
from finality and redirect me to something less
permanent, therefore, disappearing into the
cave is not the solution, that I know.
I now must determine what is the
best alternative.

Where is purgatory for me? Where is the waiting
room? May I rest there? What form does it take?
Who will be waiting for me in there, if anyone?
Whoever can answer these questions, make
yourself known. I am in absolutely free fall
now that I have abandoned my comfort. I
must cling to something, anything. 

I am unsure of how long I will stay in the
waiting room when I find it. I do not know
how long it will take for me to feel ready to
leave, and I admittedly fear becoming too
acquainted with it, as I tend to do. What
if this waiting room becomes my new appointed
cave of depravity? At least it is a little lighter
and there is a window or two. I will slowly
adjust to the light, for I have not been exposed
in so long. Perhaps this is the best route for an
individual like myself; to journey through an entire
inventory of waiting rooms, each one becoming
brighter, bigger, airier, freer, less
debilitating. Eventually, I will cease to recognise
them as waiting rooms, but as life itself. I will
learn life to be lighter, and the initial cave I
festered within is of no importance to me any longer
and will amount to nothing more than silently
folding into the abyss of itself.

Waiting (circa. 1918)
Federico Zandomeneghi