Waiting Room

On no particularly interesting, but significant day. I’m in a room, waiting to be directed up those creaky, dusty stairs close by. It’s small and open with a musty smell and piano is playing somewhere in another room. It’s peaceful and reflective, what more can i say about it?

A tall, meek and thin woman walks into the room not speaking, not smiling but hunching over in a timid way looking at her phone, sat down and curled even more into herself.

I remained silent because i didn’t know her temperaments; her habits. nor, frankly did I care to speak with her but her whole guise had me interested in her. So I figured I had to relieve my overall nervous energy from being here by imaging how she would operate had she been somewhere else other than here. was she more comfortable here? was she more comfortable here than I was? why is she here? how often does she come?

Anyhow, in my mind I visualized a mad woman so alone in a dark place driving herself insane, not understanding herself, not wanting to either. Crying, not crying, getting angry, getting happy all in the same five minutes. Pulling at her hair, turning to face herself and not realizing those sharp cheekbones are hers, that curved nose, those narrow eyes, those thin fragile lips are hers. Not liking herself i finally concluded.

At my observation, I had noted my breathing was at ease but I couldn’t help feeling sympathetic toward a woman I never seen until this day who for all I know has a fantastic and happy life and I’m making complete raw, made up stories about her. Then I thought if she is happy ect, why would she be here? I couldn’t be far wrong on my predictions and that I was right about what I thought at least half of it. Anyone who comes here can not be okay and that’s a fact, it’s reality too for me and her and people like us in the waiting room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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