anticipation

there is no waiting in this small, sleepy town. Why would one sit and wait for the inevitable? Instead, the faces smile. Some smirk. Some sit with anticipation of the muscles’ final resting place next to the jawbone, but not in wait. There is no wait for the end.

It’s approaching so rapidly, the end is so damn near, that those who see the thunderstorm approach are merely longing in anticipation for something else. They don’t wait for it, they look past it and see if there’s another vehicle traveling along this long dusty road. Only there isn’t.

The metaphors drop the flies in this little writeup, but it’s truthfully the sad and sorry tale of this village we call home. And home feels so homey. The food at the cafes barely passes for edible – but we munch down in anticipation that the next time we visit, perhaps it will be scrumptious.

The vehicles line the streets, as close to the outlets as possible, and the gossip boils in anticipation of the newest marriage, death, country and western dance, whatever. We don’t judge those who sleep with lions, nor part ways with their estranged loved ones, because that only adds fuel to the fire and we long to burn harder and stronger than ever before.

And the prices – dear people! We concern ourselves with the prices of everyday items because there’s nothing more to concern ourselves with. It’s most likely the reason politics flourishes – we know damn well there’s no entertaining value in watching paint dry, so instead we throw ourselves at the feet of the wolves and hope they are kind when they nibble verociously at our bones.

Ah yes, it’s so dramatic. It’s so wrong, as well, to paint this town with stripes when it really prefers spots. There is none of this actually occuring. Nothing actually occurs. It just sleeps, rests, waits for the next arrival. Oh wait, it doesn’t wait. It lies silent in anticipation, but it does not wait.