It is a brand new week, a brand new month, a brand new day, yet here I am: waiting for something that may never come. I have been waiting for so long now that I do not even know how long I have waited. Time has passed as rapidly as the wind in autumn; I can’t even remember what I have been waiting for. I am so used to waiting that I have no idea how else I could confront life. I don’t even know what life is. If it is a game, should I play it? If it is a sorrow, should I overcome it? If it is just the eternal wait for something, should I end it?
I am sitting in front of this screen typing words which may be nonsense or may take me nowhere. Yet here I am. Thinking, writing, thinking, writing. Writing, thinking, thinking, writing. As I am thinking, words come out; they run out of my mind and type themselves out on this keyboard which is nothing but the instrument my feelings utilise to express themselves… I am no longer conscious of the words that come out from somewhere inside me. My waiting finally begins to talk about its reasons.
Suddenly I hear a knock on the door. I open the door and here is a man standing just in front of me carrying a huge bag. He smiles and says: “Hello, I am Rick, you must be Laura. Your brother told me I can stay with you while I get my house rebuilt. Is there any problem?” “I guess there is no problem. You can wait with me, anyways”, I replied. He, of course, did not say anything because my comment made no sense at all. I invited him to come in and we started talking while I was still waiting, but no longer conscious of it.
Six months have passed since the minute my companion knocked at my door and started waiting with me. Sometimes he asked me what I was waiting for. He never received a reply to that question because, by that time, there was none. He once asked me the question and when he saw that my lips were zipped, he said “don’t worry. I am a giver not a taker.” I still don’t know what he meant, but that is not important since most of our conversations did not make sense anyway.
One day, while exchanging some saliva (or kissing as Rick prefers to call it), he suddenly stops the act and begins to pronounce the most hideous words my ears have ever heard. “Come sleep with me, will you? Be sure that we won’t make love, but love will make us.” The only thing I was sure about was that he had just ruined the most beautiful prose of Julio Cortazar. I was hoping for something more like “I want you to be the offer to my demand tonight.” But, one cannot have all one wishes for. That is the way life is. Hopefully one can idealise people. That makes things so much easier for me.
The next morning I woke up very early because I had something to wait for. I found myself in bed with a macho sleeping beauty. I could not resist exploring his anatomy. “I love this strange creature. I love the way he does not close his eyes when he sleeps”, I thought to myself. I started looking into the blue fantasy of his eyes and I could see my face reflected in them as if they were a mirror. All I saw was a small waiting-lady. I felt like Vladimir and Estragon waiting endlessly for the arrival of Godot who, as the author explained once, was not God; therefore it might have been love. “Perhaps I am waiting for Love.
Perhaps I am waiting for Lust.
If I am waiting for Love I have no choice but to keep waiting. But if I am waiting for Lust, I have already found it so I must stop waiting. “– I exclaimed in surprise and fear.
I became very aware of my little situation and started breathing anxiously. Rick, the strange creature next to me, woke up and asked me what had made me upset. My lips were zipped so he said “I would like to be the offer every time you have a demand.”
I got up and said “Is this end? Is that what you are trying to say?” He smiled, got up and while he was putting his clothes on, said “Perhaps… For you is the end. For me is just the beginning.” He left the room.
I once again did not know what he meant. Therefore, I did not stop him, but began to cry. I had no reason to cry, but I am a woman, I cry every time I experience any emotion. Hours later I realised:
My hands were writing then,
words taken from the mourning in my heart.
Life was passing me by,
I could not see that I was growing old
waiting in vain for the arrival of my own Godot.
Now that he has finally arrived,
I feel sorry for Vladimir and Estragon
because they wasted the only chance to live we are given.
And it is funny how much of this life, of myself I wasted while
just innocently looking for
someone to love without answers
or someone who loves me with no questions.
Someone like the courageous man who once upon a time knocked at my door
and gave me his love.
He was right, for me it was the end of my waiting. For him it was the beginning of our love…