residual | part 5
‘What if I were smiling, and running into your arms?
Would you see then what I see now?’
We wait for so much beneath the embrace of fluorescent lights—
Lingering is a natural state of things.
It pushes us towards entropy, that slow-consuming enemy;
It eats at order we desire, and renders patience faint.
How can we take in truth with slumbering eyes,
As if we’re in the cool of a coma?
Dreams try to tell us we still do, but
There’s still the clinging feeling, is there not, that someone’s forgotten you?
How can we go on waiting?
We have rooms for such things.
If there were a cavernous one for us all, well,
Those walls would be heavy with song, with sadness.
For waiting to give life, or to receive it;
To leave, or to return home;
To change, or to see change;
To find someone, or to lose him.
If this story has a moral, perhaps it’s this:
Our names are not our lives,
Nor are they graven with any chisel, safe as that would seem.
Yet why should not the opposite be comfort?
Why not tend another’s garden just to see the bloom?
Why sleep curled, fetal, on the floor in yet another empty room?
While our veins are yet undrained of second chances,
Let us be not timid—bravery comes in quiet ways.
Waiting is not wrong—perhaps purgatory is
And it ends, eventually, and all things are made new.
I have little to say about this one. But I do believe that, eventually, all things are made new, no matter how blighted or seemingly depleted. Sometimes it simply requires waiting—patience—to get that full abundant result. That new breath of life. That grace-filled renewal that is real.
title drawn from Into the Wild (film version)