Hunger, Loneliness, Yearning


I am the woman watching from the shadows of the doorway as the man she loves, has loved dearly for years, kisses another woman, and begins to lay her down on the bed, wrapped in his arms.

That is who I am, you see. The very essence of my being is encapsulated by that lonely, quiet woman, standing there unseen, unheard, and paralysed with anguish, with longing and yearning so unbearable and intense it is like the explosion of sun, the rebirth of a universe, the descent into a black hole, all rolled into one.

I watch hungrily from the outside as others laugh, and play, and kiss and love, and I wonder, wistfully, to myself, why it is I can never be a part of it. I don’t why—it’s just there exists a sense of apartness which prevents me from engaging in such activities, and even if I were to somehow end up on a date, or at a social event, I would still either feel alone and anxious, or find the experience, because it exists in reality and not in my head, lacking in some way.

I don’t even know how to explain it, exactly. One of the greatest mysteries to me is how in the world there can possibly be so many people on the planet, when relationships are so difficult and so often end badly. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t understand how relationships work, or how people end up in them, or find someone compatible enough to—well, be intimate, and therefore make a baby. It is incomprehensible to me. As I didn’t grow up in a particularly happy family, every time I see a family, every time I read, on an author’s bibliography, that they are married, with a son, or daughter, or sometimes even two children, this tidal wave of longing rises up inside of me, tinged with the sour taste of envy. I feel so terribly alone, sometimes, so lost, and some part of me feels, or thinks, that if I can just create my own happy little family in this world, have someone to love me, and have my own children, who love me, then perhaps—just perhaps—I would find some measure of safety and security in so chaotic a world.

It has something to do, I think, with the terrible relationship I had with my father, who treated me with less than the respect I deserved, and did not love me. Thus, there exists a hunger inside of me for male love, a void—that is why I always feel, down to the roots of my soul, like that woman standing in the doorway, watching the man she loves love someone else. From the day I was born, I became yearning incarnate, stitched of dusty hopes and unfed longings.

The only solace in all the world for such hunger inside my heart is writing, or music, or singing, or any art form, really. Without creativity and without books, I would have perished long ago, just sort of drifted away, like a leaf on the wind. I live for my art. My art is my lover, my friend, my confidante, my family, my mother and father, all rolled into one. And it’s not as if there’s something particularly repulsive about me which repels all male creatures from my vicinity. No, it’s nothing like that. Instead, I just have a lot of mental issues that prevent socialising in the first place, and I’m also a little on the quiet, creative and shy side, which makes fitting in anywhere a difficult business. I like to think of myself as a kind, delicately beautiful white flower, in a tiny abandoned greenhouse, unfurling towards the sunlight and dappled green by the tinted panes, abandoned and alone, but terribly lovely in its own small way, all the same.

You see, that is what I love, I love the sad, the lonely, the abandoned; the sight of such things fills my heart with a desperate longing and aliveness. The truth, and this is something I usually would not like to admit, not even to myself, is that I quite like being in a constant state of yearning, and unfulfilled hopes and dreams. I love the bittersweet taste of it, on my tongue. It is a kind of delightful pain, if you will, and it makes me feel as though I am truly living; if given the choice, I would not have it any other way. Beauty, for me, lies in suffering, in the unfulfilled, in the hands that reach for the sun but never touch it: that is where it all is, all art, all true feeling, all that makes life rich. So I will stand in the shadows, my friend, and let the tears drip down my cheeks and my heart clench with longing, and smile a tiny and desperate smile of blinding joy, and call it home.

PS: I shall be resuming my daily posts–I recently started a Psychology course, through an online university, and was quite caught up with assignments and so forth for a while, and neglected this blog, for which I apologise. I know this is only a very small blog, but even if there was one person out there in the world who looked forward to reading my posts, then I feel very sorry for having disappointed you. The good news is, I am back, and I am here to stay.


8 thoughts on “Hunger, Loneliness, Yearning

  1. My being, agrees with you so much on this post. You see, I can’t understand either which are the brain formations of these people who find someone, ( and usually are convinced they have found the best person there is out there for them), get married, have children. I guess maybe it is me who is faulty in that, not them. I once came across a person, same age, male. He seemed to like me, which was extraordinary on its own, and after a while we got to meet each other. He, physically at least, resembled a character of a book I had picture in my head so vividly, and adored, which attracted me I suppose. But other than their physical resemblance, which I found quite disappointing after a while seeing as I kind of loath and denounce human nature in any chance I ‘ve got, I walked away, oppressed and empty. The appeal of my imaginary friends is so great, that I have even used them in references in <> to escape from uncomfortable situations. And though I hate lying and am horrible at it, once my imagination gets a hold of me my lies become suddenly too real, too palpable.
    I am glad to know that you have taken up this online course. Trying to survive in this cruel and capitalistic world myself, while trying to stretch among my own terms and capabilities, is a true challenge and one that I can utterly relate to. I am sure that there are plenty of universities out there who would be more than willing to have you, but just for informational reasons, I once came I across a site called alison, which grands diplomas through online lessons. I haven’t looked it up thoroughly yet, but maybe you could find it interesting.
    I really hope everything works out for you. Take care, and know that I am always here for you.

  2. I was glad to see your post in my RSS feed. It has been so long since you posted that I was starting to worry about you, but I am relieved lol I worry about everything. “terribly lovely in it’s own small way” is right. Thank you for posting. I really enjoy reading what you write.

    You mention liking the state of despair, and I identify with that to some degree. But is that because we haven’t experienced anything else or is it truly something we enjoy?

    As I look back on my past love interests, I’m starting to believe that 5 of the 6 were all in my head. That’s a scary thought. Not to mention that everyone who knows about it probably thinks I am crazy. It’s just hard to believe that I actually “desire” it. I see the beauty in it, and I enjoy experiencing it. I love being engulfed in the emotions that make you cry yourself to sleep at night, the symphony of emotions that creates beautiful high notes and melodious low notes.

    That’s the thing though, without the low notes you can’t enjoy the high ones, and without the high ones you can’t enjoy life. And I can’t help but feel left out.

    • I am exactly the same–all my romantic interests, my “whirlwind romances” have existed entirely inside my head, and, yes, I think most people, if they knew about them, would have called me “crazy” because they were based entirely on delusions. I know exactly how you feel, and I honestly do believe that I am in love with extreme feelings, so I do anything to seek them out in order to feel more alive, even if that means seeing things that aren’t really there, or pretending someone loves me when they really wouldn’t care if I fell into a ditch and died. Ah, well. Let us live and dream until the day we die, eh? At least, being like this, we can find some happiness in this world, even if it’s based on illusions.

      • That’s looking at the bright side, and I guess your right. The low moments in life may suck, but I can get some work done. It’s in those moments where I am falling in love that my head is in the clouds, and I am completely useless back on earth.

        It’s like I have a built in resistance to moderate emotions. I feel them but I would rather experience something stronger even if it is extremely sad or painful.
        I wonder if you can be addicted to falling in “fabricated” love. It’s my “relationships” that have made me feel my best as well as my worst. Makes me think.

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