Do you ever hide something so well that you cannot find it, no matter where you look? Whether you’ve blocked it from memory, or hidden it away in a cardboard box in the attic, you just can’t remember where you put it. And right now you really want to find it, because it’s part of a story you have to tell, and are now ready to share. But you can’t remember. The memories are nowhere to be found in the cobwebbed nooks and crannies of your mind. You hid them too well from yourself. I am still looking, but I did find this, written by someone that I once was.
Waiting
The waiting is the hardest part. It seems that every time you go to Stanford you wait. Patients should be called waiters. That’s what they do. Wait. Sit. Wait. Maybe they should be called patience instead. You watch the clock. They put the clock on the wall next to the television that’s attached to the wall with a bracket. Why is the clock so near the television? It’s torture. Watching the slow moving hands make their way around. One…two…three… Some clocks have a sweeping second hand. Others have the tick, tick, tick of small movements. Either is equally slow. Monotonous to watch. Time passes so slowly. Sigh.
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