There will be a lot of blank space in between. Then and now was different; and so is now and those uncertainties that we call the future. And in between those — that have come, that will come — there have always been and will be ‘blank space’.
It can’t be numbered, or counted. For it’s thin like the air, or thinner still. You breathe it but never can smell it, let alone identify it. It’s percolating, spinning — if such words are appropriate at all.
It pervades all thoughts, all feelings; the wait is tense and feels like it’s forever. It’s like you’re on the brink, the edge of something steep; yet you can’t see it. You’re waiting for the word — or the sign(?) — that says ‘go!’.
Am I ready to go? Will I ever be? Plunging into the unknown, the uncertainty, to meet with ringing certainty, or a promise of it? Is it called destiny? Or will it not be so until all pictures are clear and drawing is complete?
I can never be sure. The blank space. The wait. And a promise of fulfilment.
Here I’m resting, grappling with myself; I’m not stopping — because it’s impossible to stop when you’re in a void, in this so called blank space. It’s just a spin, unknown and unidentifiable; the wait for a train that will move you to where you’re supposed to be next.