Darkening. Staring out the window - the half of it not blocked by the computer screen at the back of this desk - and the neighbours night lighting gives a decent silhouette of the large Lemonwood tree that seperates their home from ours. It's all awash with steady soaky rain.
Sailing into Full Moon time, and I decide that this intensifies my evening restlessness. This longing for who-knows-what.
It seems we either do not admit to our longing, or we let it drive us - those that turn their longing in the direction of never-aloneness, for example, might just do anything to be Famous.
Yes I refer to it as 'longing' in the singular - it's like a generic space that I cannot bear to look into - a searching something that has no real form - is blind and groping. It flares up in proximity to anything that seems to 'fill' it, and then grows infinitely so that it can never be filled.
I assume we refine this beast into various addictions and cravings and avoidances.
Tonight, in the darkness, I consider jumping in, just to see where it leads.
But I will probably fill the time writing, or painting, or ordering the edges of my life so that longing fits in more comfortably....
