Yearning. It's one of the most complex creations. It begins in the feeling of desire, branching across nostalgia and melancholy to rest in its conclusion at the new flower buds created at the branch's tip. Yearning is a tree that sprouts quickly and is forever rooted, deep in the core of your chest. It feeds off of your fears, your hopes, desires, the spiders that crawl in your limbs and the sun that shines through your eyes.
Yearning appears and suddenly you're lost in memory. The years on the sand; the whispers in a dim-lit volvo; the afternoons of tea and hospitality. Then can never be now and now can never then, but with the right tune and a quiet mind you can bring back those moments with such clarity that sometimes your yearning is satiated. You've fed the beast and woke the melancholic monster hiding deeper within, and that's a monster best dealt with from a distance.
Yearning is forgotten during daylight hours. It is a vampire of the mind, sheltering itself from the comfort of sunlight and calling out to its lovers as the clock strikes midnight. Its in those late moments that yearning leaves its desire irreplaceable. A placebo here bears no warmth of ignorance. The lack of medicine burns as the infection spreads until no friends could ease the pain of yearning for that closest friend. Yet upon waking in the morning the infection has cleared, the memory erased. The vow to call is lost, or if remembered becomes the glint of electronic words sent into the air.
Yearning becomes a blog post in the late evening hours. It becomes a tree of nostalgia. It becomes a picture of silhouettes in the fading evening light. A vow to call. A letter crafted with weary eyes addressed
To A Dearest Friend,
and what was intended as just a stylistic flair in an over stylized attempt to communicate an aspect of human-ness becomes something more literal. An actual letter, slowly losing style and gaining only friendship and longing, reading:
I miss you, dearly. Though it never seems we meet for long enough, I have found you to be one of the few people I miss when I'm away, wholly and truly. I am absolutely honored and joyful to be able to call you my friend, and someone who I can rely on. Someone I can joke with, have fun with, drink tea with; someone I can be honest with, talk about deep complexities of life with, or debate symbolism with. I have no other friend nearly like you. And I am failing right now at describing what I mean completely. But as is said, these words are futile devices.
and the letter, leaving with a simple
See you soon
left so much left to be said with no way to say it, and left the yearning, the memories, the melancholy for another night, when the daylight waned again.
