I remember the last time I was waiting. It was last year, and I wrote about it. I don’t recall everything I wrote, but I remember writing about the calm, the breeze before the storm. I remember waiting in distinction uncertainty and how the day dragged on dreadfully slow.

This time, there’s a different feeling. Not too different, because I’m still here waiting, and the day still moves painfully slow. I can still feel the unease in some of my coursemates and friends. But it’s different because this time I’m not waiting in distinction uncertainty, and it isn’t killing me. Instead, I wait in the uncertainty of my life—of my future.

For a while now, I've been thinking about my future more deeply than I've ever done. 'Been thinking about what I want and what's truly worth wanting. I won't say the conclusions I've come to—firstly because I haven't made any conclusions yet and might never make one, and secondly because I feel like they're quite grand, too big to be put out there just like that. (it's complicated)

The wait and the grand future, they're related. At least I think so—one would uphold the other. So, this is my uncertainty this time: whether, at the end, the fruit of this wait would aid or hamper this grand future I've envisioned. 

I wish myself, and all my friends waiting with me, a great reaping at the end of the wait.