Standing on a precipice, uncertainty resting in my throat with the ever looming promise of turning malignant.
Standing in the back of the room, paralysis nesting in my hands, crawling down my legs to root me in place.
Standing in hall, eyes fixated on the motions of people walking in tandem, in opposite, in living.
Standing. Observing. Waiting.
Waiting for an exhale to morph into speech. Waiting for silence to turn into song, to let words seep through my pores into the air, floating up on the currents of life into the stratosphere and nestling with the stars.
Everything requires a catalyst, a moment that inspires motion, reaction, movement. I am the fuse yet to be lit, the water held back by a dam, the revolution yet to begin.
I am waiting to be brought into motion. I am waiting to be ignited.