Once more with feeling. The last, final hurrah. One more college try before admitting defeat. Before the decay sets in, and you begin to crumble, a ruin of riches falling to dust; a wreck one can never revisit.
It wasn’t that long ago you felt so terribly young, so terribly alive. Yet it feels suddenly as though youth itself is cut short, before the last hold out, a Mexican standoff between beauty and the loss of beauty, where there is one inevitable outcome. Time seems to make you more stubborn, as though longing is the one last thread holding you to the earth; — not fate or an internal clock, but the capture or loss of desire.
The longing comes in waves some nights, and it never quite leaves you. It grows inside you where life belongs, growing and expanding, until it is a monster who mocks your solitude. You lie awake and feel yourself changing. The monster remains. It is watching while you bide your time with dazzling hopes and plans, which appear foolish in the light of day.
When you’re closer to death, and no longer feel beautiful— boldness deserts you. Instead of life feeling more fleeting it overpowers the senses. You long to be lost in something, in someone, in yourself most of all. You must break out of all the building and balancing and routine and live before this one final chance eludes you but you don’t know how. And that’s what makes the roots take hold faster and stronger before they pull you down. The tree of life is also your coffin. The delicate balance keeps shifting. You recede back into it.
Longing is a question without an answer.

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