Yearning

Sometimes I feel a yearning for something, but I don’t know what. I can’t recognize what it is that I’m looking for, what it is that I’m craving.
It’s an odd feeling, wanting something, needing something so badly but not being able to reach what it is. There’s a nostalgic element to it, as well
as a melancholy one. It’s as if, all at once, I’m waiting for something that is to be while mourning it’s eventual loss as well and missing what
once was. How do you reconcile such confusing emotions?
There isn’t a real reason for my writing about this tonight. I simply feel, once in a while, that I need to write what I’m thinking and feeling.
Sometimes it even helps, makes the next day or the nest few hours a little easier, just a little freer from worries and strange emotions.
Tonight as I write, the weather has finally turned cold and outside lightning flashes and thunder rumbles occasionally. I’m not scared of the lights and
noises anymore, not like when I was young, but I still feel an uneasiness climbing into bed with a storm raging outside. The mere fact that the sky
can release such vast quantities of water upon us seems to make all my worried insignificant and petty. Perhaps they are – probably so, in fact.
Nevertheless, there’s something comforting about looking at them on the screen, written out and confessed. There’s a release to it.

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2 thoughts on “Yearning

  1. As I see it, not everything we feel and endure is fathomable. Language only gives us so many tools with which to articulate those mysteries that ripple through us. Language gives us one helluva lot, though. Without language, we wouldn’t (I feel sure) experience all those emotions and feelings that seem to be denied to inarticulate animals – self-doubt, regret, guilt, nostalgia, melancholy, indeed yearning. Because we put names to those feelings and hence can compare our experiences of them, we feel we can deal with them. But there are still sensations that fall into the interstices between those feelings that we recognise, fleeting moods seen as half-lights and felt as bewildering, unarticulated but often powerful sensations. Sometimes, they make us feel that we have surrendered full control of our faculties, that we are the victim of forces outside our corporeal powers. Perhaps that is because not all our experiences of being alive can be filtered completely through our instinct to subject ourselves to intellectual analysis. So sometimes we just have to go with the flow and trust what is happening to our senses. It reinforces one conviction I have, that being alive and in the world and in our bodies is never boring. That you naturally tiptoe from your feelings to your reaction to the temperature and the quality of the light suggests to me that you might have an inkling of what I’m driving at.

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