Sitting, Wishing, Waiting

“I can’t always be waiting waiting on you, I can’t always be playing,  playing your fool, I keep playing your part, But it’s not my scene, Wont this plot not twist? I’ve had enough mystery. Keep building me up, then shooting me down, Well I’m already down… Must I always be waiting waiting on you? Must I always be playing playing your fool? No I can’t always be waiting waiting on you, I can’t always be playing playing your fool, fool” Jack Johnson

Loving somebody doesn’t mean that they will love you. I’m in love with love. They idea of one heart finding another in the midst of the chaos that we call life… The notion that there’s soul searching for mine. I WANT THAT! It’s atrocious to think that love is impossible.

For most of my life I’ve been waiting on love, often being swindled by cute imposters. Waiting on love isn’t so easy to do. As much as I’d like to believe that I’m ready for love, I doubt that I am. My life is a dark Jaki Byard melody. Though the light of love can heal all (or so they say), I wouldn’t want to shroud love in my darkness, or cast a shadow on its effervescence.

A common topic of conversation among my friends and family is the lack of men in my life. I have all the makings of a 1940 housewife: cooking, cleaning, hard working, great with kids, submissive. Yet I come with all the modern amenities of Y2K: intelligent, educated, independent, financially secure, ambitious.

I want the love of great novelists and esteemed playwrights.

Sonnet 116:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

 I keep saying that I don’t want to be love’s fool but I search for it around every corner, every alley, on every cloudy day.

Please come find me, come find me, come find me.

Until the day that I can wholeheartedly agree with every poet, lyricist, writer, dreamer I’ll just be siting, wishing, and waiting on you. I may not like to be your fool, but I’ll live with it because my life without even a shred of hope of your existence is not worth living.

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