There are sources of energy abound within and without us. Inspiration, deep thought, locomotion, postulation, curiosity, creativity. What these all have in common is an ability to generate energy within us. Though they all create energy in their own way, how we regard that energy and the means of getting there varies greatly. Even still, we have never arrived at an absolute regard for any one energy-maker. There are times when deep thought is good energy, and times when deep thought is bad energy.
Today I will ruminate about longing, and to what regard I presently place upon the act of longing. Longing, in its own fashion, manufactures energy within us. Many times in my life, longing has compelled me to write, to muse, to draw, to think. Occasionally it has led to sadness for what I don't have, or fondness for what I once had (and perhaps, may have again, given enough determination and the right circumstance). Longing is a reminder, a gut-punch of a memory. "You loved her once, and wasn't that a very good time in your life?" I might say to myself, in a state of forlorn longing. Or, to wit "These we very good times you had with her; thinking of her makes you happy, even though she is not yours presently." And I reassure myself that as long as I am alive, breathing and with pulses intact, she could be mine again.
This is longing energy. Throughout every day I am compelled by energies from myriad origin. Some energies make me want to write to the object of my longing beautifully. On the other hand, some energies leave me cursing previous objects of my longing under my breath. The most surprising aspect of longing, is that this object of longing can be at one time endearing, and a week removed, reviled. Having been alive long enough to experience recurrent longings of the same object or person, I have become circumspect in allowing this longing energy to move me at all.
But there is little harm in the art of longing coercing me into writing, for all writing is good writing to me. At this point I am not mandated to write, so it is all leisurely; truthfully, it is all artwork, until it is demanded of me.
Victor Frankl, a Jewish man who survived placement in a concentration camp during WWII, spoke both warmly and despondently of longing. There were times, naked and shivering in bitter cold, when Victor Frankl would be digging ditches for plumbing infrastructure, and the only thought which sustained his efforts was a longing for his wife, of whom he was not certain was even still alive. But the mere act of longing sustained him, allowed him to deny the fate of succumbing to unforgiving cold or bitter prognosis in general. Throughout his inhumane incarceration in various camps, the art of longing sustained him just as much as it sent him into a deep state of melancholy, reaching for that which he could not have, or may never have again.
I cannot liken my stay in Iraq to the experiences of Victor Frankl, but I can relate to the energies loaned to me as a result of longing - both positive and negative energies, depending on how I regarded that particular moment of longing.
For now, I am longing, and for what, I will not say. Just know that the art of longing compelled me to write this entry, and in the future will be the impetus for writing several more. But for now, I wish to write no longer, and instead enjoy this warm longing for what it is.
Today I will ruminate about longing, and to what regard I presently place upon the act of longing. Longing, in its own fashion, manufactures energy within us. Many times in my life, longing has compelled me to write, to muse, to draw, to think. Occasionally it has led to sadness for what I don't have, or fondness for what I once had (and perhaps, may have again, given enough determination and the right circumstance). Longing is a reminder, a gut-punch of a memory. "You loved her once, and wasn't that a very good time in your life?" I might say to myself, in a state of forlorn longing. Or, to wit "These we very good times you had with her; thinking of her makes you happy, even though she is not yours presently." And I reassure myself that as long as I am alive, breathing and with pulses intact, she could be mine again.
This is longing energy. Throughout every day I am compelled by energies from myriad origin. Some energies make me want to write to the object of my longing beautifully. On the other hand, some energies leave me cursing previous objects of my longing under my breath. The most surprising aspect of longing, is that this object of longing can be at one time endearing, and a week removed, reviled. Having been alive long enough to experience recurrent longings of the same object or person, I have become circumspect in allowing this longing energy to move me at all.
But there is little harm in the art of longing coercing me into writing, for all writing is good writing to me. At this point I am not mandated to write, so it is all leisurely; truthfully, it is all artwork, until it is demanded of me.
Victor Frankl, a Jewish man who survived placement in a concentration camp during WWII, spoke both warmly and despondently of longing. There were times, naked and shivering in bitter cold, when Victor Frankl would be digging ditches for plumbing infrastructure, and the only thought which sustained his efforts was a longing for his wife, of whom he was not certain was even still alive. But the mere act of longing sustained him, allowed him to deny the fate of succumbing to unforgiving cold or bitter prognosis in general. Throughout his inhumane incarceration in various camps, the art of longing sustained him just as much as it sent him into a deep state of melancholy, reaching for that which he could not have, or may never have again.
I cannot liken my stay in Iraq to the experiences of Victor Frankl, but I can relate to the energies loaned to me as a result of longing - both positive and negative energies, depending on how I regarded that particular moment of longing.
For now, I am longing, and for what, I will not say. Just know that the art of longing compelled me to write this entry, and in the future will be the impetus for writing several more. But for now, I wish to write no longer, and instead enjoy this warm longing for what it is.
Beautiful.
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