On Waiting

Waiting is a form of imprisonment.  One is doing time - but why?  One is being punished not for an offense of one's own but often for the inefficiencies of those who impose the wait.  Think about the peculiar rage that waits engender, the sense of unjustice.  Aside from boredom and physical discomfort, the subtler mysery of waiting is the knowledge that one's most precious resource, time, a fraction of on's life, is being stolen away, irrecoverably lost.