I yearn for…
I yearn for the charged excitement in the air before a thunderstorm, but always.
I yearn to be more than a conscious creature.
I yearn for worlds in which I’m smaller than a pinprick, and larger than a mountain.
I yearn for magic, real magic. But I’m afraid if magic were to become the norm, it would also become the reality, and that would I’d have to yearn for something even more than magic to satisfy me. Maybe computers are real magic, and I’m already trying to find that higher plane.
I yearn for rain, everyday, to soften the edges of the world, and for there to be secrets in every raindrop for us to catch and see. A glitter of dust from another dimension. A dead butterfly.
I yearn for a tiny little attic room to call my own, with a tiny little bed and a tiny teddy on that bed, and books piled high beside it. I would live in that room, and watch the leaves from the tree outside thrust through the window, and read.
I yearn to never love, but dream of love.
I yearn to walk through a stopped world, and observe things I could not observe because staring isn’t polite.
I yearn for a door in a toadstool at the end of a garden, and to open that door, and whisper to the fairies within in, and have them feed me bluebells brimming with honey and nuts wrapped in mint leaves.
I yearn to be more than I am, and to believe I am more than I am.
I yearn for truth, though I yearn for there to be no truths.
I yearn for monsters that can’t hurt me. Closet doors I can close, books I can shut.
I yearn to visit the mermaids, in their coral catacombs beneath the waters. Though I’m scared they might be more fish than human, and frightening.
I yearn for a shimmer of gold beneath the skin of this world, a reassuring secret.
I yearn to fly, but maybe in a hot air balloon or gripping onto an expanse of white cloud rather than only my body in mid-air, or I’d fall to my death from fright.
I yearn for plants to have souls, so they can feel it when I caress their petals, or press my hand against their knotted-bark trunk.
I yearn to be a princess living in a castle, and for a prince to climb up my long, midnight hair up to the castle and rescue me. I would refuse him, politely, and go back to my books, to my library in my castle tower. I do not think the princesses in fairytales were dreamers.
I yearn to hold a hand.
I yearn for animals to love me forever when I pet them.
I yearn for all the effluence of humanity – the buildings, the cars, the grime, the synthetic muck, everything – to be swept off the Earth, and for it to be green and new and young and wonderful again, for us to pick jeweled fruits and laugh with the birds and bathe in clear springs. The world feels dirty, clogged up. It can’t breathe, and so we can’t, either.
I yearn for ordered chaos.
I yearn to slip my mind behind the eyes of another human being, and see and feel the world through their eyes and bodies. I would like this very much.
I yearn to make everything matter. That if I rescue an ant from drowning with a stick, I am doing good.
I yearn for my soul to live in my books once my body decays, and to touch that one dreamer, who curls up in his or her chair and cries at the magic and wonder on the pages.
I yearn for purity and goodness, though life has sullied me. But I can cleanse myself, with words, and hopes, and love.
I yearn for the past to be never fully gone, so that one day, maybe, I can open a door, and walk back into my childhood, and twirl about in rapture at the old, safe world.
I yearn to yearn, forever.