Words smother longing. Do they? They must at least temporarily.

What do I long for? Uncertain, I am as of now.

Tragedy of childhood, I am already over it. The ennui of days of past, I am already over it. This new found ennui, then, what it stands for? Another longing for some other new profound meaning? Are there any profound meanings? I hope there are, else what will I must make of this ennui.

Only temporary respite I have been able to find to this non-existence being of myself. A respite through human soul is the best I have tasted yet. Art doesn’t come close. It must though, but sadly Art lacks what life throws blissfully at one's heart.

If I had a choice between Art and Life, I would always choose Life. Do I seek this choice which I never had? Do I seek this choice which I always had but never was courageous enough to act upon it? Making either choice demands a painful courage - a courage whose grace I cannot yet fathom.

Perhaps I long to evade the envy, which resides in my heart, against all those hearts who can live. How easy living comes to them? Can it be taught to me? I doubt but I have hope that yes it can be taught. Perhaps I long for this teaching: "How to live!"

Of all the words that I create, sad and less sad, there seems to be little life outside those words. Why? Do i not live and thus my words have life? The day I start living will my words lose their sad glory? What will remain of me if I begin to live and then there are no words which are in longing to be shot from my weary heart? Do I exist only on paper and not in life? But then souls around me exist in life and not paper. Why am I enchanted by a life outside paper? Have I already seen too much of words and paper that I want a new experience? Do I long for this new experience?

An ideal existence may be one where both Art and Life exist in same soul. Difficult but not impossible. Is that unison, I long?

Grave concern that looms over me still is: Is my ennui directly a derivative of my longing? Or the longing a derivative of my ennui?

A million and more million words that have all been typed in this seek, this search, and this longing has reaped no answers. What else, and who else can be the for-bearer of answers? Perhaps, nothing. The whole life is a seek. Or a revolt against this seek and longing.

Yet this seek ends in a quite temporal manner once the occasional bouts of life spring inside me. But their tenure is way too little. Almost the suffering of a century in exchange for a second of life. For that second the century of lostness feels worthwhile. But then the snake bites its own tail and I in reliving that century again, fail to relive that one second even in my memory. In that emotionally demanding century, my memory fails me. And then I long for that second again. Why can I not relive that second again and again and again over the entire span of century? No, but I long for that second again and again and again. Why? No clues are lurking on my eyelashes. A certain form of lassitude lurks only, which demands that I sleep. And sleep does not come easy to me. And so I remain awake and yawn as I feel a strange listlessness from my own heart.

For the sake of my own sanity, I must again feel all those things which I cherish. The music that punching of keys make. The brushing of the quilt's cold surface against my leg in the morning. The yearning for sea. Witnessing an exhilarating piece of Art. Creation of my Art. But in all these noted observations there are two issues. First that, although I cherish these moments, yet this cherishing doesn’t account for happiness of any form but only respites from longing. Second that, all these things are not anywhere near the touch and contact of the human life. The typewriter, the quilt, the sea, the art, all these are mere objectification of emotions, and not emotions themselves. A philosophical case although can be made that Sea and the Art are living as well, but well they are nowhere living when compared to a bare human soul. The human soul exists and thus the Art exists. A human soul precedes Art. The human soul that I must cherish is nowhere to be found. And maybe that is what I long for too. And this longing words cannot smother. Can they? They must at least temporarily.