I don’t know how much more longing I can hold in my belly, in the spaces in between my skin and my flesh. None of nothing makes no sense to me. Longing for what? For everything, for everything. It makes no sense. I long for things I used to know, for things I have yet to discover, for things I have clenched in hand right now, for things that have no shape or form, for things I wish I would have had enough courage to reach out for, things I wish I would have touched.
I long for my rain, the rain of my home, a proper monsoon. It rained the last day I left my house, which is really funny, it was September, and it wasn’t really supposed to. I long really for the smell of earth, wet earth. When rain falls in India, it is so heavy, it digs into the soil, aerates it. The rain is so heavy, unrelenting, it is so powerful. When it rains, the drops are fucking fat, full, like the sky is actually weeping. The smell of earth, of the mud getting turned over. It’s amazing. Whenever it rains, my nose is all on alerts, looking, searching, always lacking. It is the smell of wet earth that declares the rain. I miss the continuous downpour, days and nights filled with water. I miss getting wet in the rain, water splashing through the open sides of a rickshaw, water in the balcony, the humidity. Rain meant relief from the fucking summer, from all the heat, from the burning. Rain meant everything thirsty would be fed. I long to lay on my bed, and watch the rain through my window, watch the rain go on and on for hours, the cool breeze, the languid comfort of being enveloped, or being sheltered from the deluge outside. When we were kids, the first rain of the year would be a matter of celebration, it would rain for five to seven days, in a row, and apparently it would rain even more when our parents were younger. The whole city would wait, and then it would begin to rain, all the once, and we would all run outside to get drenched and to jump around it puddles. The first rain is said to be sulfuric, or some shit like that, but we were kids, that shit didn’t matter. When I moved to Auroville was only when I realized that every part of the country has monsoons at different times in the rain. Monsoon was June to mid-September in Mumbai, and just about after that in the south. I would get drenched in the rain so many times when I was living in Auroville. I remember so clearly, there was one night when we were supposed to go to this party, but we didn’t end up going there, and then it began to rain, just out of nowhere, not just rain, it began to fucking flood, we were in the fields, and we were too late to get out, so of course I got soaked, from head to toe, and it felt amazing. That night was horribly emotional, and the rain truly felt like it had purified me. I smoked so many cigarettes in the rain that night, half wet. I long to get wet in the rain, to get soaked, to walk in puddles with my feet bare, sinking into wet mud, water running down my face, opening my mouth to the sky and swallowing raindrops. I long for a rain that is not icy, not so hollow.
I long for my rain, the rain of my home, a proper monsoon. It rained the last day I left my house, which is really funny, it was September, and it wasn’t really supposed to. I long really for the smell of earth, wet earth. When rain falls in India, it is so heavy, it digs into the soil, aerates it. The rain is so heavy, unrelenting, it is so powerful. When it rains, the drops are fucking fat, full, like the sky is actually weeping. The smell of earth, of the mud getting turned over. It’s amazing. Whenever it rains, my nose is all on alerts, looking, searching, always lacking. It is the smell of wet earth that declares the rain. I miss the continuous downpour, days and nights filled with water. I miss getting wet in the rain, water splashing through the open sides of a rickshaw, water in the balcony, the humidity. Rain meant relief from the fucking summer, from all the heat, from the burning. Rain meant everything thirsty would be fed. I long to lay on my bed, and watch the rain through my window, watch the rain go on and on for hours, the cool breeze, the languid comfort of being enveloped, or being sheltered from the deluge outside. When we were kids, the first rain of the year would be a matter of celebration, it would rain for five to seven days, in a row, and apparently it would rain even more when our parents were younger. The whole city would wait, and then it would begin to rain, all the once, and we would all run outside to get drenched and to jump around it puddles. The first rain is said to be sulfuric, or some shit like that, but we were kids, that shit didn’t matter. When I moved to Auroville was only when I realized that every part of the country has monsoons at different times in the rain. Monsoon was June to mid-September in Mumbai, and just about after that in the south. I would get drenched in the rain so many times when I was living in Auroville. I remember so clearly, there was one night when we were supposed to go to this party, but we didn’t end up going there, and then it began to rain, just out of nowhere, not just rain, it began to fucking flood, we were in the fields, and we were too late to get out, so of course I got soaked, from head to toe, and it felt amazing. That night was horribly emotional, and the rain truly felt like it had purified me. I smoked so many cigarettes in the rain that night, half wet. I long to get wet in the rain, to get soaked, to walk in puddles with my feet bare, sinking into wet mud, water running down my face, opening my mouth to the sky and swallowing raindrops. I long for a rain that is not icy, not so hollow.
I long for comfort, for the comfort of stillness, of assurance and stability. Being forced through life at a break-neck speed, of moving, moving, just moving, three years of moving, three years of not having a second to take a pause, to breath, not having the assurance of something stable, something I didn’t have to run after, or worry about. I long for the scope of a breath, of peace, of everything working out for once. I haven’t had a moment of stillness in a while now. When I was back home before coming here, it was so perfect, so lovely, so tranquil. I would lay on my bed every afternoon, on my stomach, and watch as the sun made its way through the sky, through my window, I would watch the shadows lengthen, and I would watch as the whole world shifted, from day, into a lovely dusk, into night, into everything I wanted for it to. I would breathe the sun in, fill my lungs with light, and hold it between my ribs. I had nothing to worry about, and I might just fucking have to live the rest of my life chasing that pleasure. I would go out, and absolutely have the energy to, and it was lovely. Everything around me was in perfect sync, everything moved at the pace that I moved in, and I was always at the center of it, always connected to every moment, as one passed and the next one came along. I long for some peace, not all of it, of course, just a little bit, just a moment, would be enough. I long for one night when I can go to sleep without worry, and one morning when I wake up with nothing to worry about, nothing, not bills or schedules or chores or what my life is going to look like in the next few months, if the life that we have built with our own two hands will be snatched away and if I will have to bring myself to not completely sink into defeat and lose everything, even myself, one morning of not having to wake up worrying about the future, one morning of waking up to certainty, to relief. How I fucking took some peace of mind for granted. I long for a time when my head is not plagued with depression and darkness. I long for a time when I was able to hold everything in my present in the light of my mind’s gratitude, when my misery didn’t bleed into everything I breathe and consume every waking moment of my life. I don’t know if it is okay to long for this, for a life that doesn’t feel like a trail or some sort of a punishment that I am just constantly begging for salvation from.
What else do I long for, I don’t know, maybe my friend. I try to reach out through the vastness that divides us, and then snatch my hand back, I reel away and into myself. I long for the idea of a person, for freedom of understanding. I long for some connection that does not feel like I have to perform in, a connection I can hold in the capacity of m y own true self. Lately, everything feels very shallow. I am truly a horrible person. I hold nothing in higher regard than my own time, and I find it so difficult to lend my time to people these days. I long for that eagerness, excitement, looking forward, being almo-
What else do I long for, I don’t know, maybe my friend. I try to reach out through the vastness that divides us, and then snatch my hand back, I reel away and into myself. I long for the idea of a person, for freedom of understanding. I long for some connection that does not feel like I have to perform in, a connection I can hold in the capacity of m y own true self. Lately, everything feels very shallow. I am truly a horrible person. I hold nothing in higher regard than my own time, and I find it so difficult to lend my time to people these days. I long for that eagerness, excitement, looking forward, being almo-
st
desperate to spend time with someone, the ease of all of it. I only feel that way about Frank, and I am more than grateful for it. Imagine how horrible, to feel like you can't spend an infinite amount of endless time existing next to your love and then want some more. Well, then there is no one else. How horrible. I don’t know how to find this. I don’t know how to go around and around about this and not come out of it with anything but a loneliness that is beginning to eat me a little bit on the inside. Longing and loneliness dance inside me, all sharp and fully teethed, turning everything inside me into a raw landscape of arrogance and misery. I long for understanding, of me, of my tendency to suffering, my yearning. I long to talk to someone about everything that bothers me, I long to call someone, talk about life, cry a little bit, and laugh a lot. I long to talk to someone about endless things and not have to worry about hiding any faucet of myself. I long for a certain kind of selfishness that leads to expectations of people, to listen to you complain endlessly without, to ask to wait for a while more, talk for a while more, hang out for a while more. I long for something more than oh, I can hang out but only for an hour because I have this fake thing to get to, but really, I just don’t know how to talk to you without analyzing every single sound that leaves my mouth. I long for something real, not something stuck in the past or something that is holding prisoner to your proximity to the other party. I want to talk to someone and link, and it be hours, and it feels like we have still a whole entire galaxy of things to discuss. I long for a friend.
There is much more here, the list is endless, but isn’t that just human? Longing is such a very specifically human condition, or maybe not. Longing feels more animal, if I actually think about it, very feral and savage, undiluted, so consuming, something I can write and read about and experience in every waking moment of my life but never be able to fully and truly accurately express.
There is much more here, the list is endless, but isn’t that just human? Longing is such a very specifically human condition, or maybe not. Longing feels more animal, if I actually think about it, very feral and savage, undiluted, so consuming, something I can write and read about and experience in every waking moment of my life but never be able to fully and truly accurately express.