I long. I am longing. I am not lacking in longing. Longing is something I do. I cannot say for sure that I do it well. I just do. The days I am not longing are disconcerting. To me. I wonder if today is such a day. So far nobody has asked me about this. So far, at 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon, no one has asked me anything. So far, no one has spoken to me nor have I spoken all day. This does not feel like a very healthy way to live. My under-used vocal cords would probably agree, if they could speak, which they could if anyone addressed them. they are waiting. they are longing.

You may ask me, what is it like to long? I might say longing is the same thing as yearning. To which you might respond that this was not a very helpful answer. I would think about it for a moment or 2 and then I would probably agree. But I would probably need more time before I thought of answer.

And it might not even be the right answer. Longing is an acute awareness of what one is lacking in one’s life that is smushed together with a fervent desire to acquire what one is lacking.

You might say that this answer sounded so formal and academic.

Which is exactly not the response I was not looking for. I worry that this impression I give others of seeming formal and academic obscures all that I am capable of being. So maybe I should try a different answer. Like maybe I should say that longing is a feeling of great depth and passion that I have, even when there is no subject, no object to receive it.

That would probably be a better answer. Even if it were not entirely true.

About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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