Waiting for Destiny

There a million little signs, and a few that are too large to dismiss. Stunningly quiet. No announcements, no whispered reassurances. There is an overwhelming sensation of an ending that stretches beyond my own mind and heart, lacing our spirits together in silent despair. Perhaps we hope that by not acknowledging it to each other we can pretend that it is just another personal paranoia, not to be indulged. The thin veneer of normality is pierced sparingly- it keeps the fear trapped underneath.

We are waiting for destiny. For a collective destiny that breaks into a million pieces of individual fate. For one answer that asks a billion questions. The dread, the waiting- it is as horrible and painful as the answer could be. Worse, because all of the possibilities paralyze us until we know.

We all must make our own way, and we offer each other support and protection from the intrusion of our loved ones, who all think they understand, who all think they know what we will need to do, where we should go, how to pick up the pieces. We also know that focusing on survival, while crucial, minimizes our loss. Our sorrow and pain. We understand that asking those questions is akin to inquiring about funeral arrangements before offering condolences.

If this road ends, I know which turn to make. I sit at the intersection, waiting. Shielding my eyes from the sun, trying to see as far down both paths as I can. Trying and failing to stay neutral, to prepare myself equally for either journey, using the endless details of both roads as a worry stone for my troubled mind.

I’m waiting. Waiting to know whether I should hold on tighter or let go completely. The strain of such an uncertain pose is difficult but not impossible. I try to hide the struggle beneath an opaque veil of dark humor; calm, casual, resigned. Sometimes when the light is just right, that veil is translucent and you can see through it.

What you’re looking at is my heart, soul and mind- my very will- trembling under the weight of uncertainty, approaching failure.

Just like everyone else that waits with me.

A family of the undead, an army of zombies united by our battle scars. The blood, sweat, tears and laughter we’ve shared. Bonded by an agony so intimate that the lines between the individual and the collective blend and blur until they are almost unrecognizable. Both despite and because of the possibility that our story has thirty different endings.

We’re waiting to find out.

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