I (a)wait.

Wooden floorboards on a stage someplace foreign await the heaviness of my foot. I’ve know this since it hit me as a child and brought tears to my eyes outside of my mother’s favorite fashion store. I sank to the floor, back against the wall and sobbed in revelation.

“Mum,” I said “one day they’re all going to wait for me.” And with the only words I knew at the embryonic age of 6 I told her “I was born to be famous.”

God experiences through me the performer. He sees what it is like to be watched. He sees what it is like to live against the grain. This is his wish for me.

So my foundation is being built, and what must be done is being done. I am not eager, I am not excited. I busy myself with the task at hand and await that day. Yet no more than I await the weekend. With a mild amusement and anticipation, but the relaxation of someone who knows it’s there and if missed, that one is just around the corner.

I write to you. I speak to others. I am captured by those who like to capture beautiful moments and looked on at by those who like to watch beautiful moments. I watch as Who I Am (Michael Sunderland) comes slowly into alignment with What I Am (a court jester).

And the process is beautiful, even when the current moment might itself appear ugly. Is the most beautiful part of an olive not that it is nearly rotten? Is the fragility of crystal not a weakness but a fineness? Does youth not owe its beauty to being short-lived? I sit, I watch, life turns. I’m told the way will present itself, and then I will know to act. Until then, the moment calls for patience.

So back to patience. Back to life. Back to not caring what happens next or how it unfolds before me. The stage awaits me. This I know. And I will owe what it said on it to my journey towards it.

I (a)wait.

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M

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