There’s an air of expectation and of finishing,
We have barely shut the last door, fingers still on the knob,
We are stretching out to reach the next one.
So much rushing, I have seen it as I sat in that long corridor.
Doors open, shut, slam, open, shut, like a train station at peak hour.
Wouldn’t it be so much nicer to pause in the gap between this door and the next?
To reflect and wonder?
So I forded through the waves
And handed out invitations
To a party in the corridor.
For whoever is coming,
or even in the middle of another room.
And they came.
Shyly but their faces said,
This is what we wanted
This is what we were rushing towards,
Only to find we rushed past it.
A space as big as this, where we can be quiet.