In The Waiting Room of My Mind Palace.

As a young girl, I hated waiting.

Whether it’s for a new book, or an album by Coldplay, I detested that gnawing feeling. A crush promising to call me after school but didn’t would set an upheaval of sorts. This resulted in me being impulsive and the sort of person who’d think of the causes once the consequences were faced. The history classes did me no good.

As a young woman, I feel safe in waiting.

I can hold buying that pair of grey pants for the next season, looking for that perfect discount. I’d stall reading a book for three days on end, only to relish it more later. Conversations are more cherished after long periods of silence.

Why is it so different now?

Waiting is like meditation. That transit point from Platform 9 to 9.75 becomes your own. Learning to tolerate yourself comes first followed by enjoying your own company. That potential which gets built up in you is then transmitted to the rest around you.

More than this I can’t seem to postulate.

For that, I’m waiting.