And you’re sitting in the most uncomfortable chairs known to man. The magazines on the coffee table might entertain you for a little while, but when you get bored and you look out the window beside you, you see a projection of yourself in an alternate universe, Lupus-free and getting on with your life. Everyone in the Lupus waiting room is waiting for the same thing. They are waiting for their name to be called, so they can go in the back room, and have a doctor remove their ball-and-chain. Or in some cases, at least make it easier to drag around.
Time stands still in the waiting room, but you realize when you look out that window into the alternate universe, it’s moving. It’s like a steady stream of sand that slips between your fingers. It seems like the supply of sand may be infinite, but you often question this feeling.
In the waiting room there is nothing tangible. There are no art supplies, musical instruments, or running shoes. No school books, car keys, or passports. There are only photographic reminders of your former self, and the projections of your imagined self out the window. The people in the waiting room often attempt to reach towards the tangible, but an amazing pain overtakes them before they ever make contact. You wait in that room very patiently, with the strongest hope keeping you alert. But as you wait, the photographs and projections start to swirl around your head and taunt you. You realize the only way you can protect yourself from the taunting is to keep telling yourself that the waiting room is temporary. But is it?
Consider this a rough draft. I got the idea I wanted to convey right, but I will work on the wording as it comes to me.