Waiting.

Squeezed in the passenger's seat, I leaned over the window to fool myself with space. We were waiting for that one person we didn't know but would let us all go. I wasn't aware then, though. Maybe I was already too familiar with waiting. Because, and it only hits me now, that's what I have been doing all this time.

I perfectly know why. It's just about the choices I make, the things that I choose to want and those I choose not to. I don't know where the problem lies, though, if there's one. If it's in my rush to make things better or the focus I lose on the little things. If it's in the frequency of my wishful thinking, or in the mere fact that I dream big. Maybe I can't distinguish impossible. After all, I don't know what that is.

What I best need to know, however, is if I'm already wrong. It's probably one thing to want wrong things, another to want wrongly. Things aren't becoming cloudy for me, I guess I'm not yet blinded. But it doesn't take hitting rock bottom to know a fall.

I guess I have nowhere else to pick myself up from. Maybe I'll be trying to make a routine out of the most abnormal days, swallowing some of the very things I reject. The top of the ladder is reached from the bottom, after all. But I do have my pride to keep.