Stolen name
In Pamuk’s Snow, he recounts how the difference between Love and the Agony of Waiting is slight indeed. Both cause you to throw yourself on the bed with pains emanating first from the stomach, then throughout the spine, and finally to the soul. Both make time stand still and (for those who Love and are Waiting) become the moribund mallet of the object. Both make quiet moments seem supreme, yet superficial. A million memories, a million conversations, may arise that vaguely or never happened. Distractions are put into place almost as a saving grace, which in more optimal and functional times are acknowledged and sincerely lauded for their shitbaggery, rather than their cloaking nature. An element of humor is present in the Love and the Agony of Waiting that make both unbearable.
Really, I think the difference is something far more simple: One may wait for Love as a concept or they may wait for Waiting and Wanting and A-Paining. But one just downright feels more hopeful in the former rather than the latter.
It’s a matter of word choice that I have yet to settle.
