Waiting
Everyone hates waiting
but everyone’s waiting.
Waiting for things to get better.
Waiting for death.
Waiting for life.
Waiting for love.
Waiting for enlightenment.
Waiting for the revolution.
Waiting for the Mueller report.
Waiting for Q.
Waiting for the Messiah.
Waiting for Godot.
Waiting.
Waiting for life to begin
while their cells replicate,
while their lungs take in oxygen,
while their heart beats,
while life courses through their veins.
Waiting for God
while pacing on God’s feet
and glancing with God’s eyes
at God’s SpongeBob wristwatch.
Waiting at the bus stop
which is located on the bus
which is already at the place
they’re trying to get to.
Dammit motherfucker,
this is it!
This is love!
This is enlightenment!
This is the revolution!
This is Mueller!
This is Q!
This is the Messiah!
This is Godot!
What are you waiting for, motherfucker?
Waiting to find yourself on your deathbed,
staring at the clock and saying
“Gosh, I thought the show woulda started by now”?
Waiting for Buddha to kick down your door,
grab you by the crotch and scream
“Honey, I’m home”?
This is as Buddha as it gets, cupcake.
You will never encounter any more divinity
than that which is exploding
in your field of consciousness
in this very instant.
Never.
You are banging on the door
of your own home,
demanding to be let in,
and you are banging
on the inside of the door.
Vladimir and Estragon
and Pozzo and Lucky
and the little boy
and the tree
and the set
and the stage
and the lighting
and the curtain
are all parts in the only play in town,
and they are all performed by a single actor,
and that actor’s name
is Godot.
Take a bow.
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