Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Waiting


The light is relentless and omnipitant. There is no Sun to set, not hues to warm or cool, no East or West  to face and witness a new dawn or a lost day. The sky is white and close, the ground is quiet and subdued. The constant hum of recycled air dulls the senses and muffles communication. Not that there is much of that. People stroll zombie-like, avoiding eye contact, checking their credentials and comparing their destination to that of the overhead time keeper. Sydney: 13.24 boarding gate 34 drones the messanger. Please do not leave your luggage unattended, she warns monotonously, like a teacher reminding her students. No-one heeds or attends. He waits.
Was it his family he has visited? Has he been here before? There's not Duty Free in sight. He's dressed for a casual visit, comfortable for a long distance hall and a short stop-over in Bankok or Dubai. A father perhaps, seeing his children for the first time in a while, separated by distance and distain. His hope is now in the hands of a greater Being: Qantas perhaps, or Quatar. Their steely wings and softly spoken hostesses will usher him home with a blanket and synthetic nutrition, neither of which can feed or feather his anticipation. A storm brews and the floor beneath his tired feet rumbles deeply. There will be a delay.
He waits.



Somewhere else there is sign of a new day. The journey is almost at an end. Yet another is about to begin. Nothing stands in their way. Love, expressed in a different way, in a different world, will keep them together. A journey's leg has ended while another boards. There is no anticipation in their actions, only a willingness to share, to comfort, to know and be known to each other. Brisbane flight 203 departing gate 5 at 6.33am has been delayed and will now board at 7.15am.
They wait.
Waiting is an eternal event. It is filled with anticipation, expectancy and hope. It also overflows with dread. We can see the past. We remember it. We photograph it. We write it in our diary. We record it in our history. As for the future, we have no knowledge. Our expectations are empty wishes. Our dreams are clouds, blown by the wind in a distant sky. Our future is somewhere else. A destination waiting for our arrival, permanently delayed by what we do now.
We wait.

3 comments:

  1. I just 'hate' it when you teach me how to read a photograph so deeply!

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  2. Splendid story and photos Tom.

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  3. Seriously captivating, another great post that combines some of the best writing I've ever had the joy to read with some truly poignant and profound imagery. Absolutely top drawer.

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