waiting.

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale
Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.
-Dan Albergotti



I remember all those nights I would tread water, and I wonder if this isn't better. It's certainly easier. And so while I sit and measure the walls, call out to friends in vain, make smoke signals that no one can see, I'll narrate stories in my head. Name my future children. Alphabetize my spices. Chastise myself for everything I've done wrong. Defend those choices. Refuse to move on. Play board games. Wait for you to come to your senses. Put nothing on paper. Neglect my commitments to people. Write letters I'll never send. Make excuses. Let my heart be hardened. Still the last fainting beat. Wait for it to be revived. And if it doesn't, I'll rest in this - being in the belly of this fish is more peaceful than treading water. It's not where I'm supposed to be, maybe. But I'd rather not escape. Much less tiring.