The Waiting Room

When curiosity keeps you here.

When you don’t want to live,

but you don’t want to die either,

I call that place the waiting room.

You wait for there to be more.

More meaning.

More excitement.

More love.

More laughter.

You wait to feel peace in your own skin,

peace in your relationships,

your finances,

your mind.

You wait for life to take shape,

or to spread flat

like the ashes

you’ll one day become.

You wait,

not quite willing to give up.

You wait,

because you’re too curious not to.

Like maybe,

the moment you finally stand to leave,

to make something,

to step outside,

that’s when your name will be called.

And you’ll wish

you’d stayed

just a little longer

to see what was next.

Because what if

what’s beyond the waiting room walls

holds the answers

to all the questions

that formed

while you waited.

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This piece reimagined as a song using Suno (lyrics are mine).

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Lyrics

Verse 1

When you don’t wanna live, but you don’t wanna die,

There’s a hallway of time where the clocks just sigh.

I’ve been sitting where the minutes crawl,

Between what I wanted and nothing at all.

The air is still, the exits blur,

Every question mirrors but nothing stirs.

I keep waiting for something to change,

For the shape of my life to rearrange.

Chorus

I’m in the waiting room, somewhere between

A life I imagined and the spaces unseen.

The lights lean low, time drips down the wall,

Half afraid to move, half afraid to stall.

I’m not giving up, but I’m not breaking through,

Just tracing the contours of what I can’t undo.

Verse 2

I wait for my skin to feel like home,

For laughter to root instead of roam.

For the noise to settle and the chaos to still,

For power to finally follow my will.

I’m not chasing an end, not planning escape,

Just holding my breath in this in-between shape.

’Cause maybe the second I make my way to the door,

Is the second I would have learned what it all was for.

Chorus

I’m in the waiting room, somewhere between

A life I imagined and the spaces unseen.

The lights lean low, time drips down the wall,

Half afraid to move, half afraid to stall.

I’m not giving up, but I’m not breaking through,

Just tracing the contours of what I can’t undo.

Bridge

What if the walls are thinner than they seem?

What if the answers have been whispering?

What if I stay sitting where I am,

And discover there’s no bigger plan?

Final Chorus

I’m in the waiting room, somewhere between

A life I imagined and the spaces unseen.

The lights lean low, time drips down the wall,

Half afraid to move, half afraid to stall.

I’m not giving up, but I’m not breaking through,

Just tracing the contours of what I can’t undo.

Outro

The waiting room…

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Author’s Note

I wrote this because there’s a version of despair we don’t talk about much, the one that isn’t dramatic or loud, the one that doesn’t want to die but also doesn’t know how to live yet. It’s quieter than crisis. Heavier than boredom. It’s the long pause where nothing is technically wrong, but nothing feels right either.

I needed language for that middle space. Not the edge, not the ending, just the sitting. The waiting. The strange hope that survives not because things are good, but because curiosity is still breathing. Because some small part of you keeps wondering, What if something is about to happen?

This piece wasn’t written to solve anything. It wasn’t meant to be advice or a breakthrough. It was meant to be honest about what it feels like to stay when staying is an active choice. To name the patience it takes to remain in your own life without guarantees. To honor the courage of not leaving early.

Turning it into a song felt natural because waiting has a rhythm. It loops. It repeats. It swells and quiets and swells again. Music lets that tension live without forcing it to resolve.

If you recognize yourself here, I don’t think it means you’re lost. I think it means you’re listening. And sometimes listening, staying seated, eyes up, heart open just enough, is how we survive long enough to hear our name called.

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**Don’t worry, everything’s still free.

I’ve just decided to treat my writing a little more like busking.

There’s a tip jar out now, you can donate if something I’ve written ever stuck with you, but there’s zero pressure.

Honestly, even better than donations?

Restacks. Shares. Comments.

That’s the currency that keeps the cage alive.

From the cage,

Canary Vale 🪶

Poemsbycanary@gmail.com