It's exhausting waiting for the fullness of time. Straining, knowing that what you have been longing for is just past vision, waiting to coalesce into the concrete.
There's no hurrying the fullness of time. At least not if you want it to come in strong and healthy, deeply fulfilled and deeply rooted. Small measures of time pass, the discreet building to forward momentum, until suddenly it's upon you.
The fullness of time, and all time, works its inevitable sway regardless of whether you are ready now or later. Its whispers are sometimes half-caught on the tricksy breezes that wile their way into one's heart. Whispers of things to come, desires not-yet-realized, and the nightmarish terror of missing out, of being late.
The fullness of time comes steadily because all good things must grow, sending their roots down and their leaves up. Only weeds shoot up overnight, and they - pale imitations of the lasting - are often not what they appear.
One can wait for the fullness of time, uncertainty of what it is bringing with it luring to passivity, or can go out to meet it. Preparation implies expectation, and the fullness of time is not to be met with haphazard readiness, like a meal thrown together for the long-expected dinner guest.
No, the fullness of time is to be met like the Spartans greeting the Persians at Thermopylae. Sandals digging into the sand, screaming "Here I am, come and get it!" and rejoicing because they have been long-waiting for an opportunity such as this.
