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Ours is the Fury
Oct 27, 2009
*I haven't written much lately so I decided to practice. This was my practice. It's just meh. I need more practice.*

I'm sitting. Waiting impatiently for something to happen. Some big event that will alter the course of my life. The explosion of a super nova, the discovery of a cure for the most terrible disease in existence. Anything. Something to get me out of this rut. To get the world out of it's rut.

As I wait the wind picks up, rustling the leaves around me. It even goes so far as to lift some off the ground and take them away. They travel off to some distant country to intermingle with the other leaves. Leaves that they've never met. Leaves that I'll never meet. I need a change of scenery, so I get up and start walking.

I walk and walk and walk. Turning down different streets into areas that are all too familiar to me. Too routine. I take this route everyday. I walk past the small liquor store and the little old flower lady, with her wrinkly skin and heavy bags under her eyes, greets me. Never fail. By name. I exchange a few words and then continue walking.

I need fulfillment. Some big event.

Eventually, I end up back on the bench. It's comforting and uncomfortable. Comforting because it's a part of me, this bench. I come here everyday and sit, and wait, for that big thing that never comes. It's uncomfortable because it's cold, hard and sometimes damp with morning dew. I still sit. I still wait.

Some days my hope wanes. It wanes, and despair waxes. I feel like nothing will ever come. I feel like Estragon and Vladimir waiting for Godot. It's pointless waiting. Some days I stand, prepared to leave, but my feet don't move. And I notice the leaves. And my hope waxes. And despair wanes.

So, I sit. I wait.
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