What is it about evenings that so fills you with a strange, inexplicable yearning?
Evenings are the twilight of the soul. Shadows in the hollows of our being deepen and pool together until we are but walking masses of darkness.
Such a loneliness grips you that it is difficult to put into words. So much of the media fixates on flashes of emotion, like happiness or anger, but it is the silent and slow-burning sensations of grief and yearning which each of us, in the quietness of our hearts, know best.
Nothing you do can allay the emptiness in your chest, not words, not books, not films, not the embrace of another human being or the prospect of love. No spiritual philosophies, no God or Goddess, no abstract idea offer the least bit of comfort. Filtered through the grey light of evening all appears washed-out and grey, as if the rain has soaked into the fabric of the world.
You feel the urge to do something mad and drastic, something to shake up this stagnant universe like a snow-globe until the galaxies and stars swirl in a glittering frenzy.
But what? When you are so horribly limited by existence on the human plane, what can you do to break through the gray membrane into the golden world on the other side?
Dance and jump until your heart nearly explodes? Stuff your face with food, gorging on the sweet and luscious substances until you are bloated and sick? Revel in whatever earthly pleasures you can snatch at in a bid to distract yourself?
It is at these times when the fears rush in, screaming like banshees. Fear of death, of oblivion. Fear of our inherent loneliness in the universe. Fear of the fact that nothing in the physical world can provide us any comfort from the unbearable dissatisfaction and awfulness of existence.
What we really want is to return to the womb, or perhaps someplace even beyond that, when we existed as but a flicker of light in an ethereal sphere, nothing but peace and love and serenity. We are stranded on the physical plane, left to grapple with its limitations, and we are in pain.
We press our bodies to each other, hoping to be consumed and absorbed, to lose ourselves.
We press our faces to walls, wanting the solidness of it, the safety.
We fold ourselves into books, wishing ourselves into other worlds where angels always trump demons and there is always a bed to return to, an adventure winding to a close, a comfort at the end of the story.
There is nothing. That is how you feel during these cold evenings. That our Earth is just a lump of rock, and us atoms assembled together in a particular form for a little while. All a stupid, pointless accident.
Yet you cannot live through life like this.
Hope must be found, no matter how small, even if it is based on dreams and foolishness, or else you will die.
So we hug ourselves tight and think: Love. We hug ourselves tight and think: Now. We hug ourselves tight and think: Together, As One. We hug ourselves tight and think: It All Passes. We hug ourselves tight and we think: It’s Okay.
It must be.