Waiting is probably the most difficult thing to come to terms with.
Waiting for your order to arrive at a cafe, as you cast furtive glances as the table next to you. The occasional glare at the waiter. Waiting for a friend who, for some reason, is always fashionably late. For everything. Waiting for those damn relatives to vacate your house. Waiting, waiting. Waiting for your lover to call you back as you wonder if you had slammed the phone one too many times. Waiting for your evening tea. Waiting for the rainclouds, and then, rain. Waiting indefinitely.
Waiting for something s-p-e-c-t-a-c-u-l-a-r to happen. Something that will rattle your otherwise nondescript life, break the gargantuan monotony that’s been building up bit by bit, fed on your reluctance or complacency.
Waiting for metaphysical uncertainties, such as Godot. Or, waiting for the women.
Waiting for answers to be granted to your prayers.