Limbo.

This place of stillness, where nothing moves, where even time seems to slow down. So much time for reflection, and planning. All that seems to exist is a past, and an uncertain future. The present is just time passing, while I wait.

Like an artist, staring at a blank canvas, waiting for inspiration. My paints, lay before me, the brush rests gently between my fingers, the passion burns within me, but the inspiration is late. I stare at the clock on the wall and wonder, what it will be when it arrives, and why it is taking so long? Is there anymore preparation I could do while I wait? No.

All my mind has left to do, is look over a gallery full of old paintings, analize them, critique them. I know exactly what I will do next time to improve upon my technique, the thought excites me. The blank canvas on my eisle stares back at me blankly. The only sound I hear is the soft "ticking" of the hands on the clock, and the dull, and steady thumping of the heart in my chest.

Where is my muse? It should have been here by now!

So strong, my desires to move on from this. Thoughts and memories, circle round inside my head like vultures, I must already appear dead to them. I wonder, how long I can sit in this wasteland, before I die of thirst, and the birds feed on my lifeless flesh?

I have faith that my train is coming, late as it may be, to carry me off to a brand new adventure. For now, all I can do is wait, and watch the clock.