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Does this make me feel like yearning?
Not sure.
Maybe some combination of:
kerouac hungry
chipped porcelain coffee cup
sand, beach, book towel
windy sand in mouth
squinty eyed Eastwood
her
longing for her
I see her in the mistakes
in the distance
in the future
taking a punch
landing a punch
taking another punch, then a kick
smiling through bloody teeth
getting back up
going to the diner
yearning
longing
hope
hope
3d ago
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✨I like to say that delulu is the solulu, but that doesn’t always work, and when it doesn’t, I like to yearn. I think yearning in general is healthy; it helps you focus on what your values are. anyway, I’m adding a piece of writing (made with the help of online magnetic poetry) that encapsulates how I felt when yearning for someone:
My delirious dream sleep symphony whispers an ache of cool lazy time, Bare together. Though you did not let me show you raw love, So I cry elaborate sordid language, As I’m adorned with a gown instead of your hands. Falling, with my mattress of music to save me. Your absence rings in my ears, Hurting more than your presence ever could.
but yearning doesn’t have to be about someone, it can be about something, an animal, an idea, etc. I love pieces of media that include yearning too. oh and here’s a quote that I’m fond of: a man’s reach should exceed his grasp.
My delirious dream sleep symphony whispers an ache of cool lazy time, Bare together. Though you did not let me show you raw love, So I cry elaborate sordid language, As I’m adorned with a gown instead of your hands. Falling, with my mattress of music to save me. Your absence rings in my ears, Hurting more than your presence ever could.
but yearning doesn’t have to be about someone, it can be about something, an animal, an idea, etc. I love pieces of media that include yearning too. oh and here’s a quote that I’m fond of: a man’s reach should exceed his grasp.
Rec
I feel that I am in mourning of something. My bones are aching for something that my mind no longer wants. I ponder the disconnect. The stockholm syndrome seems to come alive only in my art, when I am nearest to my (and your) soul. My mother said that she doesn’t dream. I feel that you have been dreaming of me.
I am so near to knowing, like when you are hit with the sweet whiff of a dream in the middle of a solemn day. Why do we find it easier to dance with ghosts than recognize love when it is near to us. I find that complacency is the most evil of human sickness; it attacks us in silence and we fail to see the truth until the years define the lines on our faces that were once smiles. The body craves what the mind fights to forget. In this way, we cannot escape.
Is this what it feels like? I wonder about the normalcy of emotion that we stifle (thoughtlessly). Do we simply want to share the road that we’ll go before it slips away, or is this meaning something more?
I am so near to knowing, like when you are hit with the sweet whiff of a dream in the middle of a solemn day. Why do we find it easier to dance with ghosts than recognize love when it is near to us. I find that complacency is the most evil of human sickness; it attacks us in silence and we fail to see the truth until the years define the lines on our faces that were once smiles. The body craves what the mind fights to forget. In this way, we cannot escape.
Is this what it feels like? I wonder about the normalcy of emotion that we stifle (thoughtlessly). Do we simply want to share the road that we’ll go before it slips away, or is this meaning something more?
Rec
🍃a couple months ago I'm out behind the gabled house with dregs of home still seeping through its edges, a sharp sort of newness ripping the seams of who I am & who I was, sweaty fingers slipping from between each other with the bloodied grasp of desperation - it is a spring day, and I am here again. the leaves are new and the blinking infant furled in the strands of my chest takes a breath and every time I trudge through these vine-ridden woods I feel her grubby hands trace the creases in my ribcage. there are ghosts here, the soulmate-friend across the ocean and I and the way we'd take axes to the already-fallen trees like our anger was spraying away with the bark and we were left with only breeze. there are the phantoms of our hands stuck in the mud, ripped leaves beneath our fingernails as we unclogged the flow of the creek and watched the water dig its trenches deeper, and now i'm watching it capture the light of a new year in my hometown alone. through the leaves and over the tinny chorus of water-on-rock I hear the echoes of a mother calling to her children in a game of hide-and-seek, her children laughing, the clamor of it like a memory captured on tape and played back. there is a hole here, radio waves rippling through years folded back and punched through, I a bystander to the reminiscence of a stranger years down the line when some part of that laughter will be lost. it is here. it is here now, in the backyard of a house I sometimes call home.
May 5, 2025
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