I hear my Swatch ticking. The one my dad
bought me in the Amsterdam airport during our nine hour layover heading to
Iran.
Time surrounds the room—every room I enter. I feel so conscious of time—in the sense that I’m always waiting for something. It’s the classic waiting for Godot act: awaiting that which makes us happy. Constantly waiting. Unlike the protagonist in Beckett’s masterpiece however, I do know what my Godot’s are—too many to count.
The point is that “here and now” offers more than ‘there and then’. Because they are real. I want to stop waiting and simply see that I have found Godot and I am wasting my time with this longing. Wait, maybe that was Beckett’s point? Fucking genius. Fucking Estragon.
Time surrounds the room—every room I enter. I feel so conscious of time—in the sense that I’m always waiting for something. It’s the classic waiting for Godot act: awaiting that which makes us happy. Constantly waiting. Unlike the protagonist in Beckett’s masterpiece however, I do know what my Godot’s are—too many to count.
The point is that “here and now” offers more than ‘there and then’. Because they are real. I want to stop waiting and simply see that I have found Godot and I am wasting my time with this longing. Wait, maybe that was Beckett’s point? Fucking genius. Fucking Estragon.
