…for what I cannot have, sometimes fill me with a sense of incompleteness which almost screams with its intensity.

…for what I do not have, are different. These seem like envy or jealousy for a life which could have gone some other ways, but didn’t.

…creep into my being, a set of feelings which move in their location, sometimes settle-in and set my thinking in the direction of what keeps those yearnings alive and burning. Yearnings are stories I tell myself to heighten and deepen some internal bodily changes which, in their turn, deepen and heighten.

Where do they derive? From youth’s visions of what might be, or might have been? From some sense of moving beyond whose call must be heeded, no matter what? From some sense of fulfillment of a life whose work and worth have been underrated? From a boredom whose life continues to grow beyond my life, no matter what? From a romanticism native to America’s children who were taught the myths of “forever after,” and the “prince-cess on the Great White Horse” who would rescue and deliver me?

What would halt these yearnings’ burnings? Maybe only death. What could control them that they are not so ready to explode, blurring each moment into a wish for magic and miracles?

Yet…yearnings keep life moving, and provide living its own due.